•• 


THE    RED  EAGLE 


WILLIAM    WEATHERFORD,     THE    RED    EAGLE 
OF    THE    CREEKS. 

(A  study,  adapted  from  an  old  print.     No  likeness  known.) 


The  Red  Eagle 

A    POEM    OF    THE    SOUTH 


By  A.   B.   Meek 


MONTGOMERY,  ALA.: 

THE     PARAGON     PRESS 

209-111    DEXTER    AVENUE 

MCMXIV 


Copyright,   1914 
By  Will  T.  Sheehan  and  Geo.  N.  Bayzer 


PS  2  3  7#.M  3.  e  p 

EDITORIAL    INTRODUCTION 


OR  nearly  seventy  years  the  poetic  and 
romantic  charm  of  The  Red  Eagle,  an  he 
roic  poem  by  Alexander  Beaufort  Meek, 
has  been  reserved  for  the  few  fortunate 
possessors  of  this  rare  volume,  now  out 
of  print  for  more  than  a  generation.  Intellectual  Ala 
bama,  educational  Alabama,  for  that  period  have  suffered 
a  distinct  loss  in  not  knowing  this  great  poem,  reflecting 
its  early  history,  redolent  of  the  charm  of  Alabama's 
own  woods,  hills  and  vales. 

The  poem  is  more  than  a  story  of  Weatherford,  the 
Red  Eagle  of  the  Creeks,  the  Alabama  pioneers  and 
"Old  Hickory"  Jackson,  to  whom  the  Creek  War  leader 
surrendered;  it  is  poetry  of  a  high  order.  At  times 
the  author  attains  lofty  flights,  in  recounting  the  daring 
of  Red  Eagle,  his  romantic  love  story  with  Lilla  Beazely, 
the  vivid  portrayal  of  the  massacre  at  Fort  Mimms,  or 
in  his  mystic  description  of  the  Indian's  Holy  Ground, 
on  the  Alabama  River,  near  Whitehall,  in  Lowndes 
County.  The  height  of  dramatic  and  poetic  art  is 
reached  in  the  portrayal  of  the  surrender  of  Red  Eagle 
to  General  Jackson,  at  Old  Fort  Toulouse. 

It  can  but  be  regarded  as  unfortunate  that  the  school 
children  of  Alabama  should  be  so  familiar  with  the  ex 
ploits  of  King  Phillip  and  Tecumseh,  and  other  Indian 
leaders,  and  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  deeds  of  Weath 
erford  and  Osceola,  Indian  war  leaders  of  their  own 
State.  Longfellow's  Hiawatha  merits  its  general  pop- 


302371 


<>*••  • .'  T  •.  JE  1)  i;  T  6  ft'i  A  £     INTRODUCTION 

ularity,  but  why  should  a  poem  of  Indian  life  in  Ala 
bama,  and  of  equal  merit,  be  left  to  a  few  old  dusty 
book  shelves  ? 

To  put  the  people  of  Alabama  in  possession  of  their 
heritage  from  the  genius  of  Meek,  this  poem  has  been 
reprinted,  and  issued  in  keeping  with  its  poetic  and  ro 
mantic  interest. 

In  the  Introduction,  which  Meek  himself  wrote, 
and  which  precedes  the  poem,  William  Weatherford,  the 
Creek  War  Leader,  known  as  "Red  Eagle,"  is  given 
sufficient  description  to  stimulate  the  interest  of  all  who 
have  a  regard  for  the  dramatic  and  striking  story  of  the 
pioneer  period  in  Alabama.  To  it  can  only  be  added 
the  evidence  of  some  writers,  after  Meek,  who  knew 
Weatherford  and  who  bore  witness  to  the  innate  strength 
of  his  character.  Weatherford  was  by  far  the  most  noted 
of  Southern  war  leaders. 

General  Thomas  Woodward,  the  Alabama  pio 
neer  who  rode,  hunted  and  lived  by  "Red  Eagle"  after 
his  surrender  to  Jackson,  said  "The  Indians  called  him 
'The  Truth-Teller/  and  he  was  all  of  that."  Again,  the 
Creeks  called  him  affectionately  "Yellow  Billy,"  a  name 
which  threw  a  light  on  his  Scotch  ancestry,  for  Weath- 
erford's  father  was  a  Scotch  trader,  who  lived  and  had 
a  race  track  a  few  miles  north  of  the  city  of  Montgom 
ery,  between  Pickett's  Springs  and  the  Coosada  Ferry. 

Weatherford,  or  as  he  came  to  be  known,  "Red 
Eagle,"  was  not  a  chief  by  birth,  or  family  right;  he  was 
forced,  by  his  own  native  gifts,  to  the  place  of  influence 
and  leadership  of  the  Creeks  when  they  took  up  arms 
against  the  whites.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that 


EDITORIAL       INTRODUCTION  7 

the  Creek  War  in  Alabama  was  but  a  remote  and  iso 
lated  part  of  the  far-flung  conflict  between  Great  Britain 
and  the  United  States  in  1812-1814.  The  British,  from 
a  point  of  vantage  at  Pensacola,  excited  and  armed  the 
Creeks  of  Middle  Alabama  to  warfare  against  the  white 
American  settlers.  The  visit  of  Tecumseh,  from  the 
North,  to  his  old  birthplace  in  Middle  Alabama,  was 
but  another  secret  effort  of  the  British  to  put  the  In 
dians  in  the  field. 

Weather  ford,  who  commanded  the  Indians,  always 
deplored  the  horrible  massacre,  which  followed  the  cap 
ture  of  Fort  Minis,  (the  correct  spelling  of  this  name),  in 
Baldwin  County.  Certain  it  is  that  he  rode  away  from 
the  scene,  after  the  fall  of  the  barricade,  when  the  In 
dians  began  to  murder  and  scalp  the  helpless  captives. 
He  is  reported  to  have  ridden  to  the  home  of  Tait,  his 
half-brother,  some  miles  away,  where  he  said,  "My 
braves  are  murdering  men,  women  and  children,  and  I 
can  do  nothing  with  them."  The  fact  that  Weatherford 
lived,  for  ten  years  after  the  fall  of  Fort  Mims.  not  many 
miles  away,  and  among  the  white  people  who  had  lost 
relatives  in  the  massacre,  was  sufficient  proof  that  they 
accepted,  as  true  and  sincere,  his  repudiation  of  the 
massacre,  and  his  assertion  that  he  tried  to  restrain  the 
Creeks  when  they  entered  the  fort. 

It  is  but  proper  that  this  volume  should  be  pre 
ceded  by  an  acknowledgment  of  the  debt  the  people  of 
Alabama  owe  to  the  genius  of  Alexander  B.  Meek,  who 
has  perpetuated  the  romantic  history  of  the  first  Creek 
war  in  this  beautiful  poem.  But  Alabama  owes  Meek 
additional  obligation,  for  no  one  man  is  as  much  respon- 


8  EDITORIAL       INTRODUCTION 

sible  as  he  for  the  preservation  of  the  earlier  and  more 
dramatic  history  of  the  State.  A  student  at  the  Univer 
sity  of  Alabama,  when  it  opened  in  1831,  he  graduated 
in  1833,  and  immediately  won  State-wide  notice,  be 
cause  of  his  literary  and  oratorical  gifts.  In  an  uncon 
genial  age  for  literature,  about  1840,  when  that  match 
less  genius,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  was  going  hungry  and 
ragged  in  New  York,  Richmond,  Philadelphia  and  Bal 
timore,  Meek  in  Alabama  started  The  Southron  in  Tus- 
caloosa,  a  magazine  devoted  to  literature,  and  made  it 
notable  by  his  vigorous  sketches  in  prose,  and  by  poems 
of  the  highest  order.  The  magazine  was  born,  only  to 
die,  but  it  was  made  the  vehicle  for  the  beginning  of 
the  Romantic  Passages  in  Southwestern  History,  which 
preserved  the  exploits  of  the  pioneers  and  their  Indian 
foes,  and  which  had  a  powerful  influence  in  inducing 
Col.  Albert  J.  Pickett  to  write  his  History  of  Alabama. 

The  Red  Eagle  was  written  by  Meek  about  1845, 
a  friend  said;  but  it  was  finally  published  in  1855  in 
book  form  by  Appleton  and  Company  of  New  York.  It 
met  with  instantaneous  favor,  not  only  in  Alabama,  but 
in  the  cities  of^  the  East  as  well.  But  greater  and  more 
tragic  events  were  marshalling  than  the  production  of 
an  excellent  poem.  Mighty  issues  were  dividing  the 
North  and  the  South,  and  the  approaching  War  repressed 
for  a  time  a  growing  interest  in  Alabama  in  poetry  and 
literature. 

When  the  war  was  over,  but  a  few  volumes  of  The 
Red  Eagle  were  in  existence.  These  have  held  dusty 
places  in  old  libraries  and  only  now  and  then  would 


EDITORIAL       INTRODUCTION  9 

an  older  man  or  older  woman  quote  with  a  kindling  eye 
some  of  the  stirring  passages  of  The  Red  Eagle,  a  poem 
which  to  the  South  should  be  as  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake 
to  Scotland.  In  reprinting  this  volume  we  have  left  ab 
solutely  untouched  Meek's  own  introduction  to  his  poem, 
the  text  of  the  poem,  and  his  explanatory  Notes. 

We  are  under  a  special  obligation  to  Dr.  Thomas  M. 
Owen,  Director  of  the  State  Department  of  Archives  and 
History,  for  use  of  the  rare  engravings  of  early  paint 
ings  of  "The  Massacre  of  Fort  Mims,"  and  "The  Sur 
render  of  Weatherford."  It  is  p'roper  to  caution,  how 
ever,  that  these  pictures  are  altogether  the  creation  of 
the  artist,  and  the  editors  do  not  vouch  the  accuracy  of 
the  details. 

WILL  T.  SHEEHAN, 
GEO.  X.  BAYZER. 

Montgomery,  Ala.,  Dec.  1,  1914. 


TO 

W.  GILMORE   SIMMS,  LL.  D., 

THE    HISTORIAN,    NOVELIST    AND    POET, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 

IS   CORDIALLY  INSCRIBED   BY   HIS   FRIEND 

THE    AUTHOR. 


PRELIMINARY 

The  leading  incidents  of  this  Poem,  as  romantic 
as  they  may  seem,  are  all  strictly  historical.  They  are 
drawn  from  that  remarkable  and  sanguinary  chapter  in 
south-western  annals,  known  as  The  Creek  War  of  1813, 
which  has  never  been  depicted  in  such  vivid  colors  as  its 
interest  deserves.  The  hero  of  the  story  is  the  cele 
brated  chieftain,  Weatherford,  or  The  Red  Eagle,  as 
he  was  called  by  his  countrymen.  As  a  warrior  and  an 
orator,  gifted  with  all  the  physical  graces  that  could 
contribute  to  pre-eminence,  he  never  had  his  superior 
among  our  aboriginal  tribes.  He  was  the  principal 
leader  of  the  Creek  or  Muscogee  Indians,  in  the  terrific 
struggle  which  began,  after  some  preliminary  skirmishes, 
in  the  bloody  massacre  at  Fort  Mimms,  sixty  miles  above 
Mobile,  upon  the  Tensaw,  a  branch  of  Alabama  River, 
on  the  thirtieth  of  August,  1813,  when  near  five  hundred 
persons,  including  all  the  adjacent  inhabitants  of  the 
insulated  backwoods  settlement,  two  companies  of  United 
States  troops,  and  many  friendly  Indians,  were  indis 
criminately  butchered,  through  the  criminal  recklessness 
of  a  drunken  commander,  who,  though  warned  of  his 
danger,  would  not  even  close  the  gates  of  his  fortress. 


14  PRELIMINARY 

But  seven  of  the  number  miraculously  escaped  to  tell 
the  bloody  story.  This  brought  the  speedy  invasion  of 
the  Creek  nation,  by  the  various  armies,  from  Tennessee 
under  General  Jackson,  from  Georgia  under  Generals 
Floyd  and  Pinckney,  and  from  Mississippi  under  Gen 
eral  Claiborne, — resulting  in  the  rapid  series  of  san 
guinary  battles,  which,  in  a  few  months,  almost  depopu 
lated  the  nation, — near  five  thousand  warriors  having 
laid  down  their  lives  in  the  struggle  to  which  they  had 
been  incited  by  religious  fanaticism,  the  wily  schemes  of 
Tecumseh,  and  their  aggravated  hatred  of  the  white 
man,  so  constantly  encroaching  upon  their  primitive 
hunting-grounds,  then  e  xtending  from  the  Chattahoo- 
chee  to  the  Tombecbee. 

The  principal  events  of  this  War — which,  from 
its  commencement  to  its  close,  presents  a  species  of  epic 
progress  and  retributive  results  seldom  found  in  actual 
occurrences, — have  been  narrated  in  a  general  way  by 
our  historians;  but  all  its  minor  incidents,  its  local  and 
personal  features  and  characteristics — in  which  reside 
its  vitality  and  chief  attractiveness — have  been  suffered 
to  pass  unnoticed,  and  to  lapse  into  perishing  tradition. 
To  rescue  these,  in  some  degree,  from  oblivion,  and  to 
preserve  them  in  those  hues  of  poetry  to  which  they 
seem  so  eminently  adapted,  has  been  the  object  of  the 
author  of  the  present  work.  While  adhering  strictly  to 
historical  truth,  even  in  details,  he  has  endeavored  so  to 
arrange  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  picture,  as  not  to 
mar  the  grace  and  beauty,  which  are  the  prime  objects 
of  all  true  poetic  creation.  The  character  of  his  hero 
has  aided  in  this.  The  love-life  of  Weatherford, — here 


PRELIMINARY  15 

truthfully  narrated, — his  dauntless  gallantry,  his  mar 
vellous  personal  adventures  and  hairbreadth  escapes, 
and,  chief  of  all,  his  wonderful  eloquence,  which  eventu 
ally  saved  his  life,  when  all  other  means  would  have 
failed,  afford  as  fine  a  theme  for  the  poet  as  any  in 
American  history.  How  the  present  writer  has  suc 
ceeded  is  for  the  reader  to  determine.  It  may  here  be 
stated,  that  the  version  given  of  Weatherford's  speech  to 
General  Jackson,  after  the  crushing  and  conclusive  bat 
tle  of  the  Horse-Shoe,  is  as  literal  as  the  necssities  of 
verse  would  permit. 

The  author,  at  one  time,  prepared  copious  "Historic 
Illustrations"  of  the  incidents  of  this  poem;  but  he  fin 
ally  concluded  that,  as  such  a  performance  should,  as 
far  as  possible,  be  complete  in  itself, — totus,  teres  atque 
rotundus, — to  restrict  his  annotations  to  the  few  explana 
tory  notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 


VOLUPTUOUS     Spring! — in  this   soft  southern   clime, 
With  prodigality  of  birds  and  flowers ! 
Not  Guido,  in  his  rosy  Dream  of  Hours, 
Framed  in  Arcadian  vales,  a  lovelier  time! — 

Now,  whilst  thou  blessest  us  with  glow  and  chime, 
My   heart,  the   inspiration   of   thy   bowers, 
Would  fondly  claim,  and,  with  refreshened  powers, 

Build  for  thy  storied  scenes  befitting  rhyme. 

No  muse  is  thine,  my  worship  may  invoke, 
Yet  give  the  secret  of  yon  red-bird's  song — 
Spirit  and  monodist  of  that  frail  throng, 

Who  erst,  with  shout  and  dance,  these  woods  awoke. 

Perished  those  nations ! — Will  YE  not  retain 

One  rude  memorial  in  this  simple  strain? 


THE     RED     EAGLE 

CANTO  FIRST. 


THE    RED     EAGLE 


CANTO  FIRST. 
I. 

How   brightly   down  the   burning  West, 
The  monarch  sun  now  sinks  to  rest, 
Flinging  abroad  his  breath  of  gold. 

O'er  all  the  clouds  collected  there, 
Like   bannered   armies   to   behold, 

Day  dying  on  his  gorgeous  car! 
Lo!  like  a  God,  his  mighty  brow 
Glows  with  a  rich  effulgence  now, 
As,  smiling  grandly,  he  retires, 
With  lingering  glance  and  farewell  fires, 
From  the  sweet  scene  that  all  the  day 
Has  wooed  his  most  benignant  ray, — 


22  THEREDEAGLE 

Fair  Alabama's  forest  Land, 

In  its  primeval  verdure  drest, 
With  waving  woods,  and  rivers  grand, 
And    mountains    that    like    giants    stand 
To   guard  its  pictured  valley's  rest! 

From  morn  till  eve,  that  sun  has  seen 
But  one  unbroken  world  of  green. 
From  Chattahoochee's  yellow  wave, — 
By   Tallapoosa's   waters   clear,— 
Where  Coosa's  isle-gemmed  currents  lave, 
And   young   Cahawba's   hills   uprear, — 
To  where  fair  Tuscaloosa  glides, 
And  dark  Tombecbee  pours  his  tides, — 
Incessant  wilds,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
In  virgin  loveliness  remain, 
And  scenes  as  fresh  and  bright  display, 
As  ever  met  the  eye  of  day: 
No  lovelier  land  the  Prophet  viewed, 
When  on  the  sacred  mount  he  stood, 
And  saw  below,  transcendent  shine, 
The  streams  and  groves  of  Palestine! 

All  through  this  lordly  realm  so  wide, — 
This  wilderness  of  woods  and  flowers, 


THE       RED       EAGLE  23 

This  paradise  of  fragrant  bowers. — 
No   human  home  that  sun  espied, 
Save  cone-like  cabins,  'mid  the  trees, 
Whose  bark-roofs  totter  in  the  breeze, 
And  scarcely  serve  as  shelter  rude 
For  their  red  tenants  of  the  wood. 
Northward,   amid  his  mountains   free. 
The  wigwams  of  the   Cherokee; 
And  southward  by  each  winding  stream. 

That  veins  the  earth's  enamelled  breast, 
Muscogee's  scattered  camp-fires  gleam — 

The  tameless  Arab  of  the  West! 
These  only  met  his  morning  eye, 
Though  far  the  sun  flamed  in  the  sky: 
But  westward,  where  he  now  delays, 
The  white  man's  home  arrests  his  rays, — 
The   dauntless    pioneer   who   came, 
From   distant  lands,   these   wilds   to   tame. 
And  bid,  beneath  their  genial  skies, 
His  farms  extend,  his  domes  arise, — 
By  Alabama's  lordly  tide, 

And   Tensaw's   dark   and  turbid   stream, 
Whose  mingling  waves  now   gulfward   glide, 
Through  forests  vast,  in  golden  pride, 

Lit  by  the  day's  departing  beam ! 


24  THE       RED       EAGLE 

Few  days  agone,  the  song  of  peace 

Was  heard  amid  these  woodland     homes, 
The  sounding  axe  smote  forest  trees, 

And  upward  sprang  new  rustic  domes. 

Blue,  through  the  groves,  the  morning  smoke 

Curled  gently  towards  the  placid  sky, 
And  merry  laugh,  and  shout  and  joke, 

From  busy  fields,  swept  frequent  by. 
Along  the  stream,  the  light  bark  bore 

Young  commerce  to  the  opening  shore, 
And  rosy  children  strolled  away, 
With  bees  and  birds,  through  woodlands  gay. 
But  now  another  scene  is  there! — 
The  field  is  tenantless  and  bare; 
The  song  is  hushed,  the  hearth-fire  out; 
Silent  the  boatman's  frolic  shout; 
Wild  terror  hover's  o'er  the  scene, 
Where  lately  all  was  so  serene; — 
For  hark!  the  Indian's  fierce  war-cry 
Hath  pealed  along  that  forest  sky, 
And  all,  before  the  dread  report, — 

The  startled  sire  and  trembling  maid, — 
For   safety,  to   yon   sheltering   Fort, 

From  leagues  around,  have  wildly  fled; 


THE       RED       EAGLE  25 

And  now  while  all  the  West  in  radiance  swims, 
The  sun's  last  glory  lingers  on  Fort  Mimms! 


II. 


The  scenes  around  are  beautiful, 

Though  summer  hath   displaced 
Much  of  the  verdant  loveliness 

That  in  the  spring-time,  graced 
These  huge  old  forests,  where  the  vines 

With  flashing  leaves  and  flowers, 
In  gay  festoons  and  playful  twines, 

Formed  fair  perennial  bowers. 
The  spring-time's  flush  hath  gone,  but  yet 

Where  yon  secluded  dell 
Slopes  gently  to  the  river's  brink, 

What  lingering  graces  dwell! 
There  beech  and  cedar  overhead 

Their  tall  trunks  lift  away, 
And  interlacing  branches  keep 

A  coolness  all  the  day. 
The  large  vines,  coiled  like  serpents  'round 

Their  topmost  limbs,  descend 
In   long  volutions    to   the    ground, 

And  with  the  shrubbery  blend. 


26  THEREDEAGLE 

Here  sunbeams  never   fall  at  noon, 

But  summer  keeps  a  shrine, 
Where  heart-sick  lovers  might  repair, 

To   dream  of  things  divine; 
Or  where  the  wild  deer's  antlered  head 
Might   rest  from   fervid   beam. 
With   sleepy   coolness   round  him   spread, 

His   large   eyes   like  a   dream ! 
And  in  that  bower,  at  this  still  hour, 

A  maiden  form  is  seen, 
Singing  and  swinging  in  the  vines, 

Like  some  young  forest  Queen! 


III. 


Seldom,  if  ever,  in  courtly  bower, 

Was  maiden  so  fair  as  this  Woodland  Flower. 

Her  brow  has  the  light  by  magnolia  given, 

When  brightest  it  blooms  in  its  own  Southern  heaven, 

And  the  locks  that  swing  back  as  she  swings  in  the  breeze, 

Are  dark  as  the  raven's  wing  seen  through  the  trees: 

The  bloom  of  the  peach  on  her  round  cheek  is  spread, 

Her  lips,  half-apart,  dim  the  holly's  pure  red, 

And  her  eyes,  flashing  wildly,  when  with  gladness  they 

shine, 
Have  the  dark  liquid  glow  of  the  ripe  muscadine; 


THE       RED       EAGLE  27 

Though  now,  through  their  lashes,,  a  softness  they  take, 
As.  a  star,  at  brown  midnight,  smiles  up  from  a  lake. 
But  her  form,  in  its  beauty,  the  eye  can  compare 
To  naught  that  is  blooming  around  her  there. 
In  symmetry  perfect,  you  well  can  perceive, 
Though  small  is  her  stature,  the  impress  of  Eve; 
And  the  just  budding  beauties  reveal  to  the  sight 
That,  from  girlhood,  a  woman  comes  perfect  and  bright. 
Her  garb  is  a  strange  one: — around  her  small  waist 
Her  light-flowing  robe  by  rich  wampum  is  laced; 
And  her  small  pointing  feet,  as  they  rise  from  the  ground, 
You  may  see  with  the  bright-beaded  moccasin  bound. 
A  true  child  of  nature, — she  swingeth  in  glee, 
And   ever  thus   singeth  her  wild  melody: 

SONG. 

The  blue-bird  is  whistling  in  Hillibee  grove, — 

Terra-re!     Terra-re! 

His  mate  is    repeating  the  tale  of  his  love, — 
Terra-re! 

But  never  that  song, 

As  its  notes  fleet  along, 

So  sweet  and  so  soft  in  its  raptures  can  be, 
As  thy  low  whispered  words,  young  chieftain,  to  me. 


28  THEREDEAGLE 

Deep  down  in  the  dell  is  a  clear  crystal  stream, 

Terra-re!     Terra-re! 
Where,  scattered  like  stars,  the  white  pebbles  gleam, 

Terra-re! 

But  deep  in  my  breast, 
Sweet  thoughts  are  at  rest, 
No  eye  but  my  own  in  their  beauty  shall  see ; 
They   are   dreams,  happy   dreams,   young  chieftain,   of 
thee. 

The  honey-bud  blooms  when  the  spring-time  is  green, 

Terra-re!     Terra-re! 
And  the  fawn  with  the  roe,  on  the  hill-top  is  seen, 

Terra-re! 

But  'tis  spring  all  the  year, 
When   my   loved-one   is   near, 

And  his  smiles  are  like  bright  beaming  blossoms  to  me, 
Oh!  to  rove  o'er  the  hill-top,  young  chieftain,  with  thee! 


IV. 


The  song  is  hushed:  the  maiden  now 
Puts  back  the  rich  locks  from  her  brow. 
And,   gently   ceasing   from   her  sport, 
Prepares  to  seek  the  guardian  Fort. 


THEREDEAGLE  29 

For   twilight's   gathering  shades   have   spread 

Their  sombre  silence  overhead. 

And  the  first  young  star,  which  Night  receives, 

In   golden  beauty  through  the  leaves 

Is  lamp-like  twinkling, — herald  sweet 

Of  trooping  angels  soon  to  meet, 

With  shining  harps,  and  music  give 

To  those  blue  bowers  in  which  they  live, 

While  downward  comes,  like  tinkling  rain. 

O'er  all  the  woods,  the  choral  strain. 

But  as   she  turns,  the  path  to  hie, 

What  form  is  this,  which  meets  her  eye? 

An   Indian  warrior,  tall  and  straight ! — 

A  lordly  pride  is  in  his  gait: 

Above  his  head  a  red  plume  waves — 

The    signal   of    Muscogee    Braves ! 

His   tasseled  hunting-shirt   is   green: 
Beneath  his  gaudy  wampum  belt, 
The  scalping-knife's  portentious  helt, 

And   gleaming  tomahawk  are  seen ! 

Rich  leggings  of  deep  crimson  dye, 

Reveal  his  limbs'  firm  symmetry, 

While  for  his  feet  the  wild-deer's  skin 

Has  given  the  bead-decked  moccasin. 


30  THEREDEAGLE 

Forest- Apollo !   form  and  face 
Seem  spirit-moulded  into   grace. 
The  maiden  starts,  as  if  to  n*y, 
But  gazes  back  with  curious  eye, 
Then  utters  forth  a  joyous  cry, 
And  rushes  into  his  embrace! 


V. 


"Oh,  WEATHERFORD  I"  she  faintly  sighed ; 
"My  Forest  Flower!"  the  chief  replied, 
And  drew  her  to  his  manly  breast, 
And  on  her  brow  a  kiss  impressed. 
"Why  lingering  at  this  dangerous  hour, 
Beyond  the  Fort,  my  Forest  Flower? 
Knows  not  the  maid  that  dangers  stand 
Thick  as  the  leaves,  on  every  hand? — 
That  now  the  red  men,  near  and  far, 
Prepare  the  fierce  avenging  war? 
That  they  have  sworn  to  quench  in  blood, 
The  white  fires  of  this  gloomy  wood, 
And   backward  drive   into   the   sea, 
The  invaders  with  their  treachery? — 
Few  weeks  agone,  vile  murder  gave 
Our  noblest  youths  to  Burnt-Corn's  wave,  (1) 


THE        RED        EAGLE  31 

And  by  all  foes  'tis  understood 
The  Indian's  law  is,  blood  for  blood! 
Even  now  our  warriors  gather  round. 
Fort  Mimms'  dark  devoted  ground, 
To  crush  with  one  relentless  blow, — 
In  blood  and  fire. — the  treacherous   foe. 
Why,  then,  shouldst  thou,  at  this  lone  hour, 
Expose  thyself  to  savage  power?" 

"Ah,  Weatherford,  I  know  full  well 

The  horrid  history  you  tell: 

The  red  man  is  my  father's  foe. 

And  meditates  a  desperate  blow: 

But  sure  my  mother's  child  will  be 

Safe   from  his  wrath  and  treachery: 

For  in  these  ruddy  veins  of  mine 

Flows   the  best  blood  of   Indian  line. 

My  mother  was  of  his  high  race 

Who  gave  our  tribes  this  dwelling-place, 

When   from  the  prairied  West  they  came, 

New  streams  and  hunting-grounds  to  claim. 

But  I  had  thought — so  thinks  my  sire, 

The  Eagle  Chief  had  ceased  his  ire; 


32  THEREDEAGLE 

That  for  their  chiefs  and  kindred  slain 

Wewoka's  braves  had  vengeance  ta'en; 

And  that  mild  peace  would  soon  restore 

The   happiness  we   knew  before, 

And  my  own  Weatherford  re-seek  the  bower, 

And  once  more  bless  with  love  his  Forest  Flower." 

"It  cannot  be!"  the  warrior  said, 
"Till  all  these  murderous  hordes  are  dead. 
Yon  wheeling  fire   shall  not  again 
The  western  waves  with  crimson  stain, 
Until  the  WHITE  WOLF'S  throat  shall  feel 
The  vengeance  of  our  bleeding  steel; 
Yon  gloomy  Fort,  so  tall  and  proud, 
Shall,  by  the  morrow's  eve,  be  bowed 
Low  as  the  dead  who  now  are  borne 
Upon  the  breast  of  wild  Burnt  Corn; 
And  I,  this  eve,  have  sought  my  Flower, 

To  warn  her  of  the  danger  nigh, 

And  bid  her  with  her  warrior  fly 
In  safety,  to  the  distant  bower, — 
The  Holy  Ground — where  no  rude  foot 

Of  Pale-face  yet  hath  ever  trod. 
And  hymns  of  praise  are  never  mute 


THEREDEAGLE  33 

To   Manito — the    Red    Man's    God. 
There  now  the  young  papooses  play, 

The  squaws  and  maidens  wampum  twine, 
And  mighty  prophets  ever  pray 

For  vengeance  on  the  oppressor's  line. 
That  prayer  the  great  Breath-Giver's  heard, 
And  he  hath  sept  his  holy  word, 
That,  in  this  war,  the  Indian's  hand 
Shall  sweep  the  white  foes  from  the  land, 
And  that  proud  empire  be  rebuilt, 
Now  lost  by  cowardice  and  guilt, 
Till  over  Alabama's  verdant  breast, 

Her  eagled  hills  and  deer-cropped  dells, 

In  pride,  the  free-born  Indian  dwells, 
As  when,  of  old,  he  styled  it,  Here  we  rest! 

Then,  LILLA,  bid  these  scenes  farewell, 
And  quickly  seek  our  Sacred  Dell, 
And  there,  till  war's  fierce  storm  is  o'er,  in  safety 
dwell." 


VI. 


Oh,  could  you  have  seen  her, — that  beautiful  girl, 
As  she  threw  back  her  locks  from  her  forehead  of  pearl, 
While  brilliant  as  star-light  her  eye-flashes  beamed, 
And  over  her  bosom  the  red  blushes  streamed, 


34  THE        RED        EAGLE 

As  proudly  she  leaped  from  the  warrior's  embrace, 
You'd  have  marked  in  her  wildness,  her  forest-born  race. 
"No,  Weatherford,  no!"   she  sternly  replied, 
"Lilla  Beazely  will  ne'er  be  the  warrior's  bride, 
Whose  hand  with  the  blood  of  her  father  is  red. 
Though  I  love  thee,  brave  chieftain,"  she  faltering  said, 
"As  the  doe  loves  the  wild-deer,  the  turtle  her  mate; 
Though  even,  without  thee,  despair  be  my  fate; 
Though,  the  last  Moon  of  Flowers,  I  pledged  thee  my 

faith, 

By  the  stars  and  the  waters  and  the  Master  of  Breath; 
Yet  never  the  Daughter  will  shrink  from  her  sire, 
Surrounded  by  slaughter  and  famine  and  fire. 
Go,  warrior,  go,  but  in  wandering  know, 
That  if  e'er  on  my  father  falls  thy  terrible  blow, 
The  child  of  the  White  Wolf  is  ever  thy  foe !" 

She  said,  and  as  quick  as  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

She  dashed  through  the  forest.     The  young  savage  king 

One  moment  pursued  her;  but  hist!  on  his  ear, 

The  click  of  the  terrible  rifle  rings  near! — 

The  quick,  sharp  report  in  an  instant  is  heard, 

And  the  plume  of  the  chief  by  the  bullet  is  stirred; 

"Well  aimed,  old  White  Wolf!"  he  tauntingly  said, 

"But  the  scalp  of  the  Eagle  is  still  on  his  head ! 


THE        RED        EAGLE  35 

Keep  thy  balls  for  the  morrow;  thou  wilt  need  them,  I 

ween." 
He  turned  through  the  thicket,  and  no  longer  was  seen. 

VII. 

With  many  curses  on  his  gun. 

Which  ne'er  before  "such  trick  had  done," 

Old    Beazely   turns   him   to   the   Fort, 

His  luckless  fortune  to  report. 

A  bluff  old  forester  was  he; 

In  manners  rude,  but  bold  and   free; 

Trained  in  the  forest  from  a  child, 

His  deepest  lore  was  of  the  wild. 

To  chase  the  panther  or  the  deer; 

To  lure  the  whistling  turkey  near, 

Or  trap  the  wolf,  or  wilier  beaver — 

That  architect  of  lonely  river, — 

No  hunter  was  more  skilled  than  he. 
With  Spain's  adventurers  in  his  youth-  - 

Her  missioned  priests  and  traders  bold, — 
He'd  traversed  oft  the  broad  green  South, 

From   ocean's    side   to   mountain-hold, — 
From  Tampa's  groves  to  Tennessee, — 
And  every  Indian  tribe  had  seen, 


36  THEREDEAGLE 

In  every  Indian  village  been. 
Their  modes,  he  knew,, — their  feelings,  well; 
'Could  every  scheme  or  signal  tell; 
As  bloodhound  keen  upon  a  trail, 
His   aim  was   never  known  to   fail. 
In  hours  of  mirth,  with  spirits  free, 
He'd  join  in  boisterous  revelry, 

With  all  the  gladness  of  a  child; 
And  then  the  jest  and  song  poured  forth, 
Garnished  with  many  a  curious  oath; 
But  when  his  sterner  blood  was  roused, 
The  panther,  from  her  den  unhoused, 

Was  not  more  terrible  and  wild. 

These  traits  endeared  him  to  the  rude 
Red  dwellers  of  the  solitude, 
And,  in  their  simple  tongue,  they  gave 
The  title,  "WHITE  WOLF/'  to  the  Brave. 
Pleased   with   his   worth,   Coosauda's   chief 

Had  given  his  daughter  for  his  bride, 
But,  ere  had  fallen  thrice  the  leaf, 

Death  snatched  away  the  Hunter's  pride. 

Yet  still  in  beauty  by  his  side, 
An  infant  flower  sweetly  moved, 
The  only  human  thing  her   father  loved. 


THEREDEAGLE  37 

Years  passed:  but  when  the  sound  of  war 
Disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  tribes, 

True  to  his  blood,  old  Beazely  turned, 
Unshaken  or  by  threats  or  bribes, 

And  sought  the  white  man's  home,  to  share 

The  gathering  dangers  which  his  eye  discerned. 

VIII. 


Still  muttering  curses  on  his  luckless  gun, 
Old  Beazely  seeks  the  Fort.     To  meet  him  run 
An  hundred  anxious  faces, — wild  to  know 
The  fate — the  number — of  the  dreaded  foe. 
Short  answer  now  the  surly  old  man  gives: 
"Thunder  and  blood ! — the  cursed  red-skin  lives. 
Old  Rattler,  here  ne'er  missed  before  her  aim, 
But  whiz!  and  phiz!  th'  infernal  hang-load  came. 
Well,  be  it  so!  when  next  the  White  Wolf  yelps, 
We'll  see  who  safest  wear  their  greasy  skelps!" 
Sc  saying,  through  the  crowd  he  presses  on, 
And  seeks  his  daughter,  where  she  weeps  alone. 
From  her  he  learns  the  chieftain's  vengeful  threat, — 
His  only  answer,  "We  are  safe  as  yet," 
As  briefly,  too,  the  maiden  he  reproved, 
For   well   he  knew  how  deeply  she   had  loved, — 


38  THE         RED         EAGLE 

A  passion  he  himself  had  once  approved. 

For,,  of  Muscogees  braves,  no  manlier  one, 

The  old  backwoodsman's  wanderings  had  known, 

Than  Weatherword  (2) — young,  eloquent  and  bold, 

Loved  by  the  young,  and  honored  by  the  old. 

His  word  in  council,  like  a  trumpet  rang, — 

Aye  first  in  pastime  or  in  war  he   sprang, — 

No  arm  could  swiftlier  speed  the  light  canoe, 

Or  wield  the  red  club  with  a  deadlier  blow. 

With  these  rude  attributes,  his  youth  combined 

The  nobler  graces  of  a  cultured  mind, 

Drawn  from  the  white  man's  schools, — but  still  his  soul 

Disdained  the  flowery  fetters  of  control, 

And  turned,  untamable,  once  more  to  trace 

The  paths  and  habits  of  his  Ishmael  race. 

With  them  their  noblest  brave  he  was  esteemed, 

Their  ruling  chief  in  war  or  council  deemed. 

These   forest  virtues   softer   hearts   impressed, 

And  the  "RED  EAGLE"  held  a  kingly  nest 

In  many  a  bosom  'mong  Muscogee  maids, 

Whose  warm  eyes  wooed  him  to  the  dogwood  shades. 

Old  Beazely  saw,  with  pride,  ere  war's  alarms, 

The  chieftain's  homage  for  his  daughter's  charms; 

But  now  a  sterner  mood  his  soul  possessed, 

And  bitterly  his  hatred  he  expressed: 


THEREDEAGLE  39 

"Death  to  the  dog! — Don't  cry  your  sweet  eyes  out, 
The   fool's  not  worth  this  whimpering  about! 
Go  sleep,  my  child;     I'll  haste  me  and  report 
The  skulking  dangers  that  surround  the  Fort." 
While  thus  the  old  man,  in  his  anger  goes, 
View  we  the  fortress  and  its  lurking  foes. 


IX. 


Upon  a  high  uncultured  glade 

That  slopes  towards  the  river's  side, 
Fort  Mimms  was  built, — a  rude  stockade. 

Whose  walls  the  forest  growth  supplied 
Slight  were  its  fragile  battlements, 

The  hardy  Pioneers  to  guard,  (3) 
Who,  from  the  neighboring  settlements, 

Thither  had  hastily  repaired. 
Brave  men  were  they,  and  stout  of  arm 
To  do  or  dare,  or  shield  from  harm 
In  troublous  times;  but  well  they  knew 
Their  meagre  numbers  all  too  few, 
The  savage  foemen  to  withstand, 
Who  swarmed  in  thousands  through  the  land, 
Oh,  'twould  have  been  a  boon  of  joy 


40  THEREDEAGLE 

Could  they  have  met  in  equal  strife 
Their  savage  foes, — bent  to  destroy, — 

And  periled  with  them  life   for  life. 
Each  gathering  then  his  rifle  good, 
Had  sought  no  shelter  but  the  wood, — 
Nor  bridegroom  to  his  marriage  feast, 
Nor  penitent  to  shriving  priest, 
Nor  maiden  to  her  trysting  bower, 
Nor  humming-bird  to  morning  flower, 
Nor  school-boy  to  his  evening  play, 
Had  gone  more  readily  than  they 
To  that  red  field  of  shot  and  shout, 
Where  riots  death  in  battle-rout! — 
And  each  would  then  have  borne  his  part 
Like   Richard   of  the  Lion-Heart, 
Or  William  Tell  in  mountain  deed, 
Or  Arnold  of  the  Winkelried, 
Or  young  Bozzaris  when  his  name 
Brought  back  to  Greece  her  morning  fame; 
But  pent  and  thwarted  now  they  feel 
That  fierce  despondence  o'er  them  steal, 
Which   generous    Courage  only   knows, 
When  overpowered  by  its  foes. 


THE         RED         EAGLE  41 

Their  families  are  round  them  here, 
Clustered  in  wretchedness  and   fear, — 
Fair,  trembling  women, — maid  or  wife — 
And  children  bright  with  first  young  life! 
Here,  too,  the   friendly    Indians   fled, — 
The  Half-Bloods,  overwhelmed  with  dread, — 
And  all  whose  sentenced  homes  had  heard 
The  shrill  war-cry  of  Weatherford. 
Five  hundred  souls  have  refuge  sought 
Within  the  crowded  precincts  of  that  Fort! 


X. 


But  where  is  he,  the  red-plumed  chief,  who  late 

Wandered  undaunted  by  that  fortress  gate? 

'Tis  midnight  deep,  and  far,  with  scattered  beam, 

The  stars  are  rocking  in  the  silent  stream, 

Like  bright  young  children  of  some  heavenly  birth 

Ccme  down  to  bathe  in  fountains  of  the  earth. 

Far  up  the  river,  a  shrill  cry  is  heard, — 

The  gloomy  signal  of  night's  ghostly  bird, — 

Now,  round  yon  headland,  circles  on  the  view, 

The  swan-like  motion  of  a  light  canoe, 

Swift  through  the  darkness  stealthily  it  glides, 

And  now,  in  shadow,  bv  the  shore  abides. 


42  THEREDEAGLE 

Again    that    signal,,    "Whip- poor-will!" — and    lo! 
Two  shadowy  forms  are  seen  upon  the  shore. 
The  boatman  joins  them,  and  "What  word,"  inquires, 
"Brings  the  Great  Prophet,,  from  the  council  fires?" 
"Cahawba's  braves  have  heard  the   Eagle's   scream, 
And  here  will  join  us  by  the  morning's  beam," 
'  'Tis  good!  and  how  does  Hillis-hadjo  speak?" 
"My  warriors  all  are  by  Pine-lo-la  Creek." 
Few  words  of  council  then  the  chieftains  hold; 
Their  schemes  and  strategies  are  briefly  told; 
And  entering  cautiously  their  boat,  the  three 
Glide  o'er  the  streams  in  hushed  rapidity. 
By  a  low  island's  shore,  they  stop,  and  soon 
Stand  in  its  centre,  round  an  aged  crone, — 
A  gray  old  woman,  in  whose  haggard  face 
All  fiendish  passions  the  keen  eye  might  trace, 
Above  a  low  red  fire  she  bends,  and  sings 
A  harsh,  shrill  ditty  of  demoniac  things. 
"Well,  mighty  witch!" — the   Eagle   Chief   demands, 
"What  says  the  Master,  for  his  warrior  bands?" 
"Mine  eyes,  this  night,  have  seen  his  mighty  face:  (4) 
He  sends  glad  vengeance  for  the  Red  Man's  race. 

'Strike    quick — strike    sure — strike    all,    both     old     and 

young.' 
"Said  the  Great  Spirit,  with  his  thunder-tongue, 


THE       RED        EAGLE  43 

'Speed  the  red  fire,  the  scalping  knife,  and  ball, 
Till  every  Pale-face  shall  before  you  fall. 
I,  with  the  Red  Man,  will  in  battle  go, — 
My  fery  shafts  shall  shatter  down  his  foe, — 
The  earth  shall  open  fneath  the  White-dog's  feet, 
And  thunder-stones   upon  his  armies   beat. 
No  harm  shall  on  my  red  son  light;  but  he 
From  powder,  lead  and  steel,  secure  shall   be, 
And  in  his  might,  possess   once   more  this   land, 
Which  I  framed  for  him  with  my  own  right  hand!'  ' 

As  thus  her  prophecy,  the  old  witch  vowed, 
The  awe-struck  chieftains,  in  her  presence  bowed. 
Poor,  superstitious  wretches ! — true  they  deem 
The  hideous  fancies  of  the  old  hag's  dream, 
And,  turning  from  her,  deeply  vow  to  keep 
The  dread  fulfillment  ere  the  morrow's  sleep. 

XI. 

The   sun  is   shining  brightly 

Above  Fort  Mimms,  this  morn; 
All  hearts  are  beating  lightly, 

For  they  have  heard,  with  scorn, 


44  THEREDEAGLE 

Old  Beazely's  solemn  warning 

And   his   daughter's   foolish  tale: — 
"Bright  smiles  the  rosy  morning, 

Why  should  the  cheek  be  pale?" 
So  he,  at  least,  who  bore  command, 
In  reckless  mood,  addressed  his  band, — • 
A  soldier  old,  of  well-earned  fame, 
But  maudlin  now,  and  flushed  in  game: 
"If  aught  the  impius  foe  designed, 
We  should  not  know  his  secret  mind. 
He  thinks, — presumptuous  hawk! — to  scare 
Our  dove-cotes,  for  his  gibe  and  sneer! 
Weak  tremblers,  no! — close  not  the  gate, 
With  open  doors,  his  steps  we'll  wait." 

Scarce  had  his  lips  the  taunting  spoke, 
When  on  his  ear  the  warwhoop  broke, 

Shrill  as  the  cry  of  "Fire !"  by  night. 
A  rifle-shot ! — and  now  another  ! — 

And  now  a  hundred  rifles  ring. 
The  sire  and  son,  the  maid  and  mother, 

With  wild  confusion  and  affright, 

From  tent  and  bench  and  hassock  spring. 


THEREDEAGLE  45 

"To  arms!  to  arms!" — old  Beazely  cries: 
"To  arms !  to  arms !" — each  lip  replies. 
"Close,,  close  the  gate !" — but.  ah,  too  late, — 
The  wily  foe  is  at  the  gate. 
With  dreadful  rush,  and  shout,  and  yell, 

The   combat   thickens   there: 
The  Pioneers  support  it  well, 
And  soon  the  savages  repel, 
But  many  a  valiant  spirit  falls, 

Before  the  gate  swings  clear, 
And  by  old  Beazely's  arm  is  closed, — 
So  fiercely,  bloodily,  opposed ! 

But  now.  with  terrible  report, 
The  savage  rifles,  round  the  Fort, 

From   every  quarter  ring: 

Death  struggles  in  on  leaden  wing, 
A  thousand  warriors  swell  the  cry, — 
The  Indian's  battle-melody, — 

And  rush  to  scale  the  walls. 
The  inmates  to  the  port-holes  fly, 

And  pour  their  whole  resistance  out. 
The  foe  recoils  a  moment  back; 

But  louder  swells  the  onset  shout, 
And  now,  amid  the  battle-rack, 


46  THEREDEAGLE 

An   Indian  warrior  is   seen, 

With  hunting  shirt  of  brightest  green, 

And  crimson  plume  above  his  head, 
Cheering  the  tawny  warrior  on; 
"Remember,  chieftains,  wild  Burnt  Corn!" 
One  rush — the  palisades  they  gain — 

But  many  a  warrior  lies  dead 
Beneath  the  battle-rain! 

Now  rings  below  the  fearful  axe, — 
They  cut  the  palisades  away! — 

And  arrows,  lit  with  flaming  flax, 
Upon   the    house-tops,    play! — 

The  Pioneers  their  fire  relax, 

And  hark !   gives  way  the  palisade : 
A  chasm  through  the  wall  is  made, 

And  inward  rush  the  frantic  foes, 
With  shout  and  yell, 

That  Heavenward  rose, 

Like  merriment  of  fiends  in  hell! 


Ah!  then  a  deadlier  strife  began! 
With  gun  to  gun,  and  man  to  man, 

They  grapple  in  terrific  close. 
The  rifles  clubbed  are  snapped  in  twain, — 


THE        RED        EAGLE  47 

And  skulls  are  cleft  beneath  their  blows: 
The  war-club  falls  with  plunging  sound: 
The  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife 
Hew  down  the  woodman  and  his  wife; — 
The  infant's  brains  are  scattered  'round! 

Brave,  brave,  they  fought,  those  forest  men, 
With  overwhelming  numbers  then ! 
Not  manlier,  in  his  mountain-pass, 
Withstood  the  foe,  Leonidas ! 
Xor  Xelson,  on  his  slippery  deck, 
Amid  the  battle's  storm  and  wreck! — 
And    feebler   woman,   nerved   by   fear, 
In  the  dread  combat  bore  her  share, 
With  frantic  hope  to  save  her  child 
From  this  red  Herod  of  the  wild! 
But  all  in  vain  his  strength  and  hers, 
Xo  mercy  knew  the  murderers ! — 

And  now,  o'er  the  buildings,  the  flames  stream  away, 

And  crackle  and  gnash  in  infuriate  play; 

And  the  vanquished  who  fly  from  the  tomahawks'  doom, 

In  the  flames  of  their  houses  find  a  terrible  tomb! 

Xo  spot  has  a  refuge,  no  corner  a  path, 

By  which  to  escape  from  wild  Weatherford's  wrath! 


48  THEREDEAGLE 

XII. 

The  sun  sank  at  evening  as  bright  as  his  morn, 
But  the  walls  of  Fort  Mimms  from  his  vision  have  gone; 
And  a  gray  drowsy  smoke  curls  over  the  place, 
Where  yester  dwelt  manhood  and  beauty  and  grace. 
Alas !  'tis  a  signal  of  what  has  been  done, — 
The  carnage  and  rapine  in  the  eye  of  that  sun! 
And  the  dark  flapping  vulture,  that  soars  in  the  air, 
Will  soon,  with  the  night-wolf,  to  those  ruins  repair, 
And  complete,  in  the  face  of  the  languishing  moon, 
The  carnival  dread,  by  the  savage  begun. 
And  that  savage  is  far  on  his  blood-dripping  flight, 
And  the  howl  and  the  war-dance  affrighten  the  night. 
His  scalps  are  five  hundred! — grim  Weatherford  smiles, 
"The  White  Wolf  has  met  the  reward  of  his  wiles !" 
He  says,  and  he  turns,  where,  all  bleeding  and  torn, 
A  pale,  trembling  captive,  Lilla  Beazely  is  borne. 
The  Red  Eagle  smiles,  as  he  bears  his  bride  home, 
Undreaming  the  dread  retribution  to  come! 


r 


THE     RED    EAGLE 

CANTO  SECOND. 


THE     RED     EAGLE 


CANTO  SECOND. 
I. 

How  sweet  the  rosy  hours  of  peace ! 

What  blessings  fall  from  them  like  flowers ! 

Filling  the  groves  with  starry  showers, — 
Filling  all  hearts  with  love  and  ease. 
The  garland  decks  the  woodman's  brow, 

Cheering  him  onward  in  his  toil: 
Before  his  axe  the  forests  bow, — 

The  green  corn  sprouts  above  the  soil. 
Far  through  the  trees,  his  new-built  cot! — 

His  sunny  wife  is  singing  there, — 
And  smiling  children. — all  forgot. 

In  present  sport,  their  recent  care. 


52  THEREDEAGLE 

The   tinkling  bell   gives   signal   'round, 

From  vale  and  hill,  of  grazing  flocks, 
And,  where  yon  beechen  grove,  is   found 

The  crystal  spring  among  the  rocks ! 

Such  scenes  as  these  are  multiplied 

Through  all  the  frontiers,  far  and  wide; 
And,  'neath  thy  sceptre,  gentle  Peace, 
The  happy  homes  and  scenes  increase, 
As  hardy  Pioneers  speed  on, 
Their  westward  motion  with  the  sun, — 

Like  Vesper  in  the  path  of  day, — 
Till,  where  unbroken  wilds  have  spread, 
From  immemorial  time,  o'erhead, 
Their  dreamy  solitudes,  they  trace, 

In  lines  that  ne'er   shall  pass  away, 
The  first  foundations  of  a  race 
Whose  steepled  empires  there  shall  rise, 
In  civic  splendor  to  the  smiling  skies ! 


II. 


Such   scenes   as  these  but  yesterday, 
From  Georgian  streams  to  Tennessee, 
And  far  where  Misissippi's  vales 
Feel  the  rich  breath  of  Cuban  gales. 


THEREDEAGLE  53 

But,  hark! — what  cry  is  that  which  sounds 

In  terror  through  the  frontier-bounds?^ 

"The  wild   Muscogee's  bloody  hand 

Hath  struck  the  settlers  of  the  land, 

At  far  Fort  Mimms:  five  hundred  lie 

Butchered  in  cold  barbarity! 

To  arms ! — to  arms !  the  savage  comes 

With  desolation   for  your  homes. 

To  arms;  and  quick  avenge  the  blow, — 

To  arms !  and  lay  the  fiendish  murderers  low !" 


III. 


As  erst,  through  Scotia's  stormy  sky, 

The  Fire-Cross  roused  to  battle-deeds, 
Speeds   through   the   frontiers   now  that   cry, — 

That  gathering-cry,  an  old  man  speeds. 
He  tells  how  from  Fort  Mimms  he'd  fled, 
The  one  survivor  of  her  dead; 
He  paints  the  horrors  of  the  strife, — 
The  tomahawk, — the   scalping  knife, — 
Manhood  and  youth,  the  maid,  the  wife, 

In  undistinguished  slaughter  blent! 
And,  oh,  he  weeps,  a  daughter  fair, 
Snatched  from  his  eyes,  and  butchered  there, — 


54  THEREDEAGLE 

The  young,  the  fond,  the  innocent: — 
"My   gentle   Lilla  there  was   slain, 
And    I    shall   never   sleep    again, 
Until  the  cursed  murderer's  blood 
Shall  stream  in  rivers  through  their  wood; 
TiU   blasted  Weatherford  shall  feel, 
Plunge  through  his  heart,  this  hungry  steel. 
A  mangled  corpse,  my  Lilla  lies ! 
Revenge !  revenge !  revenge !"  he  madly  cries. 


IV. 


Rings  through  the  woods  of  Tennessee, 
Rings  over  Georgian  hills,  that  cry, — 

Down  Mississippi  to  the  sea, — 

And  thousands  to  their  standards  fly. 

Brave  armies   form,  and  leaders  bold 

Pour  their  dark  squadrons  through  the  wold. 

From  swarming  north,  and  east  and  west, 

Muskogee's   borders   they   invest. 

O'er  Chattahoochee's  silvery  stream, 

The  arms  of  Floyd  and  Pinckney  beam; 

By  dark   Tombecbee,  Claiborne  comes, 

Frightening  the  echoes  with  his  drums; 


THEREDEAGLE  55 

And,  from  the  north,  a  bolder  yet 

Spurs  through  the  forest;  bayonet 

And   sword  and  flag  the  distance  fill, 

Long-gleaming  over  Coosa's  hill ! 

Brave  Jackson  leads  his  warriors  down 

By  Indian  hunting-range  and  town, 

And  from  their  ranks,  the  cry  is  heard, 

"Revenge,   revenge,   on   Weatherford! 

No  mercy  shall  the  murderers  know, 

Who  crushed  Fort  Mimms  with  treacherous  blow." 


V. 


In  vain  the  Indians  stem  their  course, — 

They  hew  the  red  ranks  down,  each  day, 
And  press,   with  overwhelming   force, 

Into   the    Nation's   heart,   their   way. 
At   Tallashatchee's    fatal  ground, 

By  Talladega's  leaguered  fort, 
And  Hillibee, — the   Red  Man  found, 

From  death  and  ruin,  no   resort. 
In  vain  they  struggled,  vain  they  shed 
Their  blood  like  water,  till  all  red 
Their  creeks  and  rivers  ran  with  gore, 
And  butchered  hundreds  strewed  the  shore. 


56  THE       RED       EAGLE 

The  invader's  martial  skill  outvies 

Their  simple  arms  and  battle  cries, 

And  crushes,  with  an  iron  hand, 

The  fairest  regions  of  their  much-loved  land. 


VI. 


Ah,  demon  War! — what  scenes  of  woe 

Rise  ever  in  thy  fearful  path! 
The  green  land  reddens  'neath  thy  blow, 

And  wilts  before  thy  fiery  wrath. 
The  orphan's  tears,  the  widow's  wail, 

The  father's  curse,  denote  thy  way, — 
The  plundered  town,  the  smoking  vale, 

The  white  bones  bleaching  in  the  day. 
They   call  thee   glorious! — yet  thy  plumes, 

Nod  as  they  may,  are  bathed  in  blood, — 
Thy  splendor  human  hope  consumes, — 

Thy   field   of   fame,   death's   solitude! 
And  though  full-well  deserved  the  doom 

On  Alabama's  children  brought, 
Yet  who  but  weeps  the  woe  and  gloom, 

Demon!  thy  twenty  battles  wrought! 


THEREDEAGLE  57 

VII. 

Through  all  those  fierce  and  bloody  fields, 

One   arm   terrific   vengeance   wields; 

He  guides  the  conquerors  through  the  wood, 

To  each  inviolate  solitude; 

Applies  the  torch  with  readiest  hand, 

To  every  wigwam  in  the  land; 

Aye,  foremost  in  the  hottest  strife, 

He  riots  in  the  loss  of  life; 

Before  his  blows  the  stoutest  fall; 

No  foe  escapes  his  rifle  ball; 

His  red  eyes   gleam  with  fiendish  fire; 

His  wrinkled  cheeks  are  pale  with  ire. 

"Ah,  yes !"  he  cries,  "they  long  shall  rue 

The  hellish  deed  they  dared  to  do, 

And,  in  their  graves,  remember  well 

The  music  of  the  White  Wolfs  yell !" 

VIII. 

But  not  in  the  paths  of  their  armies  alone, 

Were  the   vengeance    and   strength    of   the   conquerors 

shown. 

Brave  spirits  there  were  who  roamed  through  the  wood. 
And  enacted  bold  deeds,  as  avengers  of  blood. 


58  THE        RED       EAGLE 

Hear  the  story  of  three,  whose  memories  long 
Should  live  in  the  flower-crowned  annals  of  song.  (5) 

Where  proudly  and  dark,  through  cedar-topped  shores, 

Alabama's  broad  wave  in  magnificence  pours, 

Behold,  'round  yon  islet,  a   gallant  canoe, 

With  savages  crowded,  dashes  out  on  the  view. 

All  painted  and  plumed,  they  lift  their  war-scream, 

And  shoot,  like  an  arrow,  athwart  the  broad  stream. 

But  now,  from  yon  covert,  a  white  bark  appears, 
And  swift  for  the  foeman  triumphantly  bears. 
Its  crew  are  but  three,  yet  no  danger  they  fear, 
But  dash  to  the  conflict,  with  resolute  cheer. 

In  the  reel  of  the  waters,  with  terrible  shock, 
The  light  barks  encounter,  and  stagger  and  rock. 
Now  grappled  together, — the  war-club  and  knife 
And  short  swinging  rifle  clash  in  desperate  strife. 

Ah !  son  of  the  forest,  bend,  bend  to  thy  blow ! 
Brave  soul  of  the  Saxon,  thrice-fold  is  thy  foe ! 
Ah !  never  before,  in  the  battle's  wild  deed, 
Had  each  for  his  strength  and  his  courage  such  need! 


THE       RED       EAGLE  59 

The  combat  is  brief:  the  fierce  struggle  is  done, 
And  the  late  foaming  waters  in  red  ripples  run. 
The  conflict  is  over;   but  the  conquerors   who? 
Ah !  see  the  brave  three,  alone  on  the  view ! 

Their  foemen  have  perished;  the  dark  sweeping  wave 
Has  given  each  chieftain  a  cold  silent  grave, 
And  now  o'er  the  stream,  though  exhausted  and  pale, 
In  triumph  glide  homeward,  SMITH,  AUSTILL  and  DALE  ! 
Three  cheers  for  their  names ! — and  their  memories  long 
Shall  live  in  the  flower-crowned  annals  of  song! 


IX. 


As,  from  their  moorings  rudely  riven, 

Frail     barks  are  tossed  on  stormy  seas, 
And  headlong  to  destruction  driven 
Before  the  wild,  impetuous  breeze; 
So  from  the  conqueror's  whirlwind  path, 
Before   his   unrelenting   wrath, 
The  Red  possessors  of  the  woods, 
Are  driven  through  their   solitudes. 
Where  now  thy  boast,  proud  Eagle  chief, — 

Thou  of  the  kingly  heart  and  eye? — 
Is  this  dread  doom  of  blood  and  grief, 
Thy  followers'  promised  victory  ? 


60  THEREDEAGLE 

Thy  voice  has  cheered  them  to  the  field, 
But  where  thy  proud  prophetic  shield? 
Is  not  thy  stout  soul  quelled  and  bowed, 
Before  the  foes  that  'round  thee  crowd? 


Ah,  no !  Red  King ! — I  hear  thy  signal  cry 

Still  ring  undaunted  through  the  forest  sky; 

And  now,  where  far  thy  loved  and  native  stream 

Flows  green  and  golden  through  the  morning's  gleam, 

I  see  thy  light  bark  o'er  waters  bound, 

And  bear  thee  swiftly  to  the  Holy  Ground. 

E-chan-a-cha-ca! — ne'er  to  raptured  sight  (6) 

Spread  out  a  land  more  beautiful   and  bright. 

The  Indian  Eden ! — where  he  fondly  deems 

Still  smiles  the  Great  One,  o'er  its  azured  streams. 

For  many  a  league,  the  broad  slopes  sweep  away, 

O'erhung  with  groves  of  hickory,  beech  and  bay; 

All  forest  trees  that  mark  the  generous  soil, — 

The  gnarled  white-oak,  and  the  large  vine's  coil, — 

The   sugar-maple   and   tulip   high, 

Lift  their  huge  branches  to  the  favoring  sky. 

When  Spring  comes  smiling  over  hill  and  dale. 

What  light  and  fragrance  in  these  woods  prevail; 

Then  all  his  banners  of  far-flushing  green, 

O'er  every  forest  monarch's  tent,  are  seen. 


THEREDEAGLE  61 

The  graceful  dogwood  waves  his  crown  of  flowers, 
Diffusing  snow-stars  through  the  vistaed  bowers. 
The  tasseled  chinkapin  perfumes  the  hill; 
The  luscious   honeysuckles,  by  the  rill. 
Faint  with  a  sweetness  which  by  far  excels 
All  the  rich  odors  of  Cathayan  dells. 
And  oh,  what  minstrelsy  of  bee  and  bird. 
Thioughout  the  greenful  paradise  is  heard!  — 
The  mock-bird,  swinging  on  the  locust  limb, 
Pours  down  the  forest  a  perpetual  hymn: 
The  whistling  partridge  in  the  meadow-grass, 
The  amorous  wild-duck  on  her  swaying  grass, 
The  chattering  blue-jay,  and  the  pine-perched  crow, 
And  screaming  river-crane,  with  wing  of  snow, 
Their  motley  voices  through  the  green  aisles  fling, 
And  keep  the  anthems  of  orchestral  Spring! 
'Tis  Winter  now:  but  still  the  land  displays 
O'er  hill,  and  slope,  and  dell,  its  peerless  grace. 
Well  had  the  Red  Man  chosen  here  a  seat 
For  ever  sacred  from  intruders'  feet. 
Here  through  the  trees  his  scattered  wigwams  rise. 
The  blue  smoke  rippling  slowly  to  the  skies : 
Around  each  door  the  naked  children  play; 
The  squaws  are  at  their  labor  all  the  day; 


62  THE        RED        EAGLE 

And  through  the  vistas  on  the  stream  you  view 
The  patient  fisher  in  his  still  canoe ! — 
These  clustered  cabins  form  a  village  group, 
Where  sounds  discordantly  the  drunken  whoop; 
In  yonder  open  space, — with  circuit  wide, 
Behold  the  Council-House,  in  bark-built  pride; 
Where  savage   statesmen  hold  their   Congress   rude, 
And  gravely  cogitate  "the  nation's  good  I" 
Here,  too,  the  Prophets  of  the  Simple  Race 
Keep  in  these  druid  groves  their  dwelling  place. 
Rude   their   religion:    yet   they    deem   that   death, 
Brings  to  the  warrior,  immortal  breath, 
And  that  his  spirit,  in  the  Sunset  Groves, 
By  clearer  streams,  and  greener  prairies,  roves, 
Where,  ever  bounding,  with  his  silver  horns, 
The  white  deer  glistens  through  the  grassy  lawns; 
The  screaming  eagle,  with  his  prismic  plumes, 
The  forest  mountain's  solitude  illumes; 
And  timorous  turkey,  and  impassive  bear, 
Await  the  shadowy  braves  and  hunters  there. 
Few  points  of  earthlier  faith  they  own, — but  this 
The  best  assurance  of  eternaJ   bliss, — 
To  hate  the  White  Man,  with  their  latest  breath, 
Nor  yield  to  any  conquerors  save  Death ! 


THE        RED        EAGLE  63 

The  milder  features  of  the  Christian's  school, — 
Peace  and  forgiveness — soften  not  their  rule; 
These,  like  the  light  of  phantom  stars,  they  hold, 
Deceptive  doctrines,  faithless  as  they  are  cold. 

Such  their  religion :  such  the  Holy  Ground, 
Where  all  Muscogee's  warriors  now  are  found. 
Before  the  dread  invader's  wrath  they've  come, 
To  seek  the  shelter  of  their  Sacred  Home, 
And  from  their  mighty  Prophets  gain  the  spell 
That  shall  their  haughty  conquerer   repel. 
Here  the  Red  Eagle  dwells,  whose  voice  once  more, 
Their  ancient  strength  and  courage  mav  restore. 
Where  roves  he  now,  their  bravest  and  their  best? 
Why  seeks  the  kingly  bird  his  myrtle  nest? 


A  cottage  by  a  pebbly  creek 

Whose  rimpling  waters  slide  along, 

With  lapse  and  gush,  as  if  they  seek 
To  syllable  themselves  in  song. 

Soft  groves  of  bay  and  cedar  'round 
Perpetual  shade  and  greenness  keep, 

And  fleck  with  beauty  all  the  ground, 


64  THEREDEAGLE 

With  mottled  shade  and  beauty  deep, 
Within  the  cot,  a  plaining  hymn 

In  tones  that  flutter  like  a  bird's — 
Sweet  as  the  chant  of  seraphim, 

Yet  sad  as  memory's  fureral  words. 
Pass  through  the  door: — a  weeping  girl 

Is  seated  in  yon  dim  recess; 
Her  brow  is  whiter  than  the  pearl, 

But  hid  by  many  a  raven  tress. 
She  weeps  and  sings:     "My  father  dear, 

Long  months  have  passed  since  thou  wert  slain; 
And  I,  a  wretched  captive  here, 

In  orphaned  loneliness  remain. 
The  heartless   savage   ever  keeps 

His  gloomy  watch  about  my  way ; 
His  vigilance  ne'er  tires  nor  sleeps, 

But  notes  my  footsteps  night  and  day, 
God  of  the  Christian!  hear  my  prayer! 

Avenge  my   father's  cruel  death! 
And  oh!  his  suffering  daughter  bear 

To  thy  embrace,  great  Sire  of  Breath! 
Bear  me  away  from  this  abode 

Of  lust  and  rapine,  crime  and  grief; 
And,  though  my  heart   should  break,  oh  God! 

Hurl  to  the  dust  this  savage  chief! 


THE       RED       EAGLE  65 

Red  Eagle !  well  they  call  his  name, — 

His   talons  are  imbrued  in   gore ! 
Yet   once   I   loved   his    regal    fame, 

All  earthly  pride  and  hope  before. 
But  oh,  my  father,  through  the  night, 

'Revenge !' — I   hear  thy  ghostly  cry. 
Thy  white  locks  stream  upon  my  sight, — 

Thy  strong  voice  ever  pealing  by; 
Oh  God !" — She  starts  and  stops  the  wail, — 

A  shadow  darkens  by  the  door ! — 
Her  heart  beats  thick,  her  cheek  grows  pale, — 

A  strong  step  on  the  creaking  floor! 
Fills  up  the  door  a  lofty  form, 

With  waving  plumes  and  rifle  gun, 
And  glittering  scarf,  and  wampum  charm, 

Bright-flashing  from  the  outward  sun. 
One  hurried  glance, — then   sinks  her  head 

Upon  her  heaving  breast   of  snow, 
And  tremblingly  she  hears  his  tread 

Approach  her  presence,  soft  and  slow. 
"Still  weeps  the  maid? — has  she  no  word 

To  greet  her  warrior  from  the  fight? 
Why,  even  the  passive  forest  bird 

Welcomes  her  lover  with  delight. 


66  THEREDEAGLE 

Still  beats  thy  heart  with  deadly  hate 

For  one  who  glad  would  die  for  thee? 
Oh,  Lilla,  'tis  unkindest  fate 

Thus  exiled  from  thy  love  to  be. 
I  well  can  stem  the  stormy  fight, 

The  victor's  blows  and  fiery  breath, 
But  oh,  thy  coldness   is   a  blight 

Upon  my  soul  more  deep  than  death ! 
Look  up,  my   girl!   for  weary  weeks 
We  have  not  met, — look  up,  and  smile ! — 
From  strife  and  storm,  the  Eagle  seeks 

The  music  of  the  Dove  awhile!" 


XJ 


She  lifts  up  her  brow, — from  her  eye  gleams  a  light, 
Like  the  fire-fly's  lamp,  through  the  shadows  of  night. 
Her  lips,  blue  as  ashes,  are  quivering  apart, 

And  list!  'neath  her  vestment  the  beat  of  her  heart. 

• 

One  moment  she  gazes  all  throbbing  and  dumb, 
And  then,  like  a  torrent,  the  pent  feelings  come: — 
"Vile  chieftain,  away! — begone  from  my  sight, 
Thou  hast  withered  my  soul  with  demoniac  blight. 
The  blood  of  my  father  is  red  on  thy  hands, 
And  ever  beside  thee,  his  bleeding  ghost  stands ! 


THE        RED        EAGLE  67 

Away  from  my  vision ! — the  love  I  once  cherished, 
Weatherford,  for  thee,  in  anguish  has  perished, 
And  now  in  my  bosom  dwell  hate  and  revenge, 
And  purposes  dire,  that  never  shall  change. 
Oh,  daily  I  pray  to  the  Master  of  Breath, 
To  whelm  thy  proud  form  'neath  the  waters  of  death; 
And  sooner  a  corse  'neath  thy  hatchet  I'd  be, 
Than  dwell  in  love's  union,  one  moment  with  thee!" 

XII. 

"Oh,  Lilla!  stay  this  flood  of  ire." 
The  gloomy  chieftain  said. — "Thy  sire 
Was  not  by  me  in  battle  slain. 
My  heart,  for  thy  dear  sake,  would  fain 
Have  saved  him  from  the  dreadful  blow 
That  laid  black   Mim  ms's  murderers  low. 
I  charged  my  warriors,  one  and  all, 
That,  safe  from  knife  and  club  and  ball, 
They  should  preserve  the  White  Wolf's  form: 
But,  dearest,  in  the  battle's  storm, 
Amid  the  wild  tumultuous  fight, 

Though  harmless  from  our  rifles'  aims, 
He  vanished  from  my  watchful  sight. 

And  must  have  perished  in  the  flames." 


68  THEREDEAGLE 

"Oh,  cease!"  she  cried,  "the  horrid  story, — 
Rack  not  my  brain  with  this  wild  theme, — 

Amid  the  flames,  all  torn  and   gory, 
I  see  his  white  locks  wildly  stream! 

Away !"  she  cried  with  piercing  scream. 

"Away!" — and  in  insensate  dream, 

As  snaps  the  lily  in  the  breeze, 

Or  falls  the  stricken  dove  from  the  trees, 

She   sank   before   the   warrior's   feet, 

As  pale,  as  motionless,  as  sweet! 

XIIJ 

The  midnight  moon,  like  a  silver  ship, 

O'er  the  isle-starred  deeps,  is  climbing  now, 
And  as  onward  she  sweeps  with  broadening  dip, 

The  blue  waves  slope  'round  her  shining  prow. 
How  proudly  she  veers  in  the  heavenward  breeze! 

And  list  like  the  clink  of  stars,  you  hear 
Her   cordage   creak,  as   she   quells   the   seas, 

And    onward   bears    in   her   high    career! 
Thus  seemeth  the  moon  in  the  upward  deep, 

But  over  the  earth  her  sweet  light  falls, 
As  calm  and  as  white  as  the  rays  that  sleep 

'Round  a  festal  lamp  in  marble  halls ! 


THEREDEAGLE  69 

Her  white  rays  sleep  on  the  silvered  woods, 

On  the  sliding   stream,   and   prairie's   breast, 
And  all  through  their  breathless  solitudes, 

They  seem  by  the  gentle  spell  possessed. 
Like  a  shrine  of  love,  'mid  the  cedar  trees, 

The  cot  by  the  creek,  in  the  beauty  stands. 
How  hushed!  oh,  it  seems  that  the  wing  of  Peace, 

To  Eden  quiet,  that  cottage  fans ! 
But  look  though  yon  window  where  the  moon  goes  in, 

A  lovely  girl  on  a  couch  asleep; 
Her  bosom  heaves  'neath  its  vestment  thin, 

And   even  in  slumber  she   seems  to  weep. 
What  silvered  light  on  those  rounded  arms ! 

Her  coal-black  hair  o'er  her  shoulder  strays, 
On  that  brow  and  lip  what  heavenly  charms ! 

'Round  that  shrouded  form  what  human  grace ! 
She  sleeps  and  dreams :  from  her  quivering  lips, 

Listen! — you  hear  the  half- formed  words, 
"Weatherford ! — father!"   and  then   outslips 

A  sigh  as  faint  as  a  wounded  bird's ! 
She  stirs,  and  she  wakes, — and  her  lifted  lids 

Reveal  to  her  eyes  the  snowy  moon! 
She  listens, — and  hears  but  the  katydids 
Or  merrier  cricket's  all-night  tune. 


70  THEREDEAGLE 

Ah  yes ! — the  sturdy  breathings  now  come, 

Of   a   manly   bosom   slumbering  near: 
He  sleeps  on  the  floor,  in  the  shade  of  the  room, 

On  the  rugged  furs  of  the  bear  and  deer ! 
She  holds  her  breath,  and  listens  a  space. 

"Ah,  yes!  it  must  be  done!"  she  sighed: 
She  turns,  and  slips  from  her  resting-place, 

And  stands  by  the  sleeping  warrior's  side. 
He  sleeps,  forgetful  of  war  and  guilt; 

Unclinched,  by  his   side,  his  rifle  lies; 
'Neath  his  wampum  belt,  his  scalp-knife's  hilt 

Catches  the   gleam  of  the  maiden's  eyes. 
She  slips  the  knife  from  its  easy  sheath; 

She  feels  for  the  beat  of  the  sleeper's  heart; 
One  moment  more,  and  thy  hand,  oh  Death! 

Shall  rend  that  body  and  soul  apart. 
She  lifts  the  blade! — when,  hark!  on  her  ear., 

The  distant  sound  of  a  rifle  rings ! 
She  drops  the  knife,  with  the  sudden  fear, — 

And  up,  from  his  couch,  the  warrior  springs. 
He  seizes  the  arm  of  the  trembling  girl, — 

"What  does  the  maid  by  the  warrior's  side? 
My  knife  ! — ah  yes  ! — thy  purpose  I  see ! — 

Thou,  truly,  art  fit  for  the  Eagle's  bride! — 


THE        RED        EAGLE  71 

But  back  to  thy  couch,,  and  seek  repose; — 
For,  although  to  die,  I  am  nothing  loth 

Yet,  beautiful  trembler,  spare  thy  blows, 

For  soon  enough  death  will  come  to  us  both." 

XIV. 

Down  by  the  creek,  the  warrior  goes 
Where  on  through  reeded  banks  it  flows ; 
Across  the  narrow  stream  he  leaps, 
And  up  the  straggling  pathway  keeps. 
Soon  moving  through  the   forest  wide, 
He  sees  dark  forms  around  him  glide; 
Far  through  the  trees  they  wave  along, 
A  gloomy  and  commingled  throng. 
Now  passes  he  a  clamorous  group, 
Who  wake  the  night  with  dance  and  whoop; 
Now  'round  a  watch-fire's  ruddy  glare, 
Wild  forms  he  views,  all  stark  and  bare, 
Who  laugh  and  yell,  as   some  bold  wight 
Recounts  his  'ventures  in  the  fight, 
And  shows  the  scalp  all  reeking  red, 
Torn  from  the  butchered  White  Man's  head 

Throughout  the  startled  Holy  Ground, 
Such  scenes  as  these,  tonight  abound; 


72  THEREDEAGLE 

And  as  the  chieftain  onward  goes, 
His  regal  form  each  warrior  knows, 
And,  while  he  passes,  all  proclaim, 
With  shouts  of  pride,  the  Eagle's  name. 

Now,  through  the  village  street,  he  turns, 
Where  many  a  blazing  watch-fire  burns, 
'Mid  savage  scream,  and  wild  carouse, 
And  silent  seeks  the  Council  House. 
He   enters, — and   around   the   room, 
A  hundred  blazing  torches   'lume, 
And  shed  a  red  funereal  glare 
Upon  the  forms  assembled  there. 
These,  in  the   centre,  on  the   ground, 
In  savage  state  are  seated  'round. 
And  plumed  and  painted,  grim  and  stark, 
Their  rank,  strange  decorations  mark. — 
The  shaggy  furs  of  wolf  and  bear. 
The   vaunted   warrior-chiefs  declare: 
The  tufted  crests  of  owl  and  crow. 
The  consecrated  prophets  show; 
Bracelets  of  silver  please  the  eye, — 
Rich  wampum  belts  of  varied  dye, — 
Ear-rings  and  medals,  beads  and  shells. 
And  necklaces  of  tiny  bells. 


THEREDEAGLE  73 

Silent  they  sit,  in  thought  profound, 
While  slow  the  black-drink  passes  'round. 
And  graver  pipe,  whose  drowsy  fumes 
Blend  with  their  meditative   glooms. — 
The  Eagle  enters,  and  assumes 
His  seat  amid  the  circle  grave. 
Quickly  his   eye,  o'er  sage  and  brave, 
Glances  inquiringly,  as  if 
To  read  the  purpose  of  each  chief. 
"Why  rings  the  signal  at  this  hour/' 
He  asks,  "within  the  Prophet's  bower? — 
Speak,  Hillis-hadjo;  have  the  spies 
Brought  word  or  sign  of  enemies?" 
"Yes,   mighty   chieftain,   they   report 

That  Claiborne,  with  two  thousand  men. 

Is  camped  tonight,  by  Uchee  glen, 
And  with  his  army,  it  is  thought, 
Will,  ere  the  dawn-star  shall  appear, 
In  all  his  strength,  attack  us  here!" 
"Bold  fool;  and  does  he  dare  invest 
The  Eagle's  consecrated  nest? 
By  great  Manito!  he  shall  weep 
His  rashness,  in  destruction  deep! 
This  is  the  Master's  chosen  land, 


74  THE        RED       EAGLE 

Protected  by  his  own  great  hand; 
Our  holy  prophet's   spells  have  given 
A  wall  around  it,  high  as  heaven; 
No  impious  Pale-faoe  e'er  shall  tread, 
In  safety,  on  its  fertile  bed; 
The  air  shall  turn  to  sheets  of   flame, 
And  drive  him  back  in  fear  and  shame; 
The  earth  shall  'neath  his  footsteps  reel; 
The  clouds  hurl  on  him  shafts  of  steel; 
And  he  shall  find, — weak  fool  and  knave, — 
The  Holy  Ground,  the  White  Man's  gravel 
So  legends  of  our  fathers  say, 
Transmitted  from  our  earliest  day, 
Go,  warriors,  then,   and  quick  prepare 
The  morning's   victory  to   share, 
And  from  these  fools  to  reap  at  last 
Revenge  for  all  our  sufferings  past. 
But  first,  to  chase  away  each  timid  thought, 
Go,  speed  the  dance  by  great  Tecumseh  taught !- 

When,   from  the   northern   lakes, 

Through  gloomy  wilds  and  dismal  brakes, 
He  sought  our  sunny  land, 

And  taught  our  chiefs   and  braves, 

No  longer  to  be  timid  slaves, 


THE       RED       EAGLE  75 

But  'gainst  our  foes  to  stand, 
In  the  Great  League  embraced 
With  all  the  red  tribes  of  the  West: 
For  so  the  scattered  stars  of  night, 
By  day  in  one  great  orb  unite, 
And  form  the  sun's  majestic  light!" 

XV. 

Where,  unobstructed   from  the  sky, 
The  moon  looks  down  with  silver  eye. 

Upon  a  wide  and  level  plain, — 
With  circling  steps,  now  fast,  now  slow, 

To  music's  wild,  discordant  strain, 
In  mazy  whirl,  the  dancers  go. 
But  strange  the  forms  commingled  there, 
Not  human,  but  the  wolf  and  bear, 
The   antlered  deer,  the   horned  bull, 
The  panther  sleek  and  beautiful. 
The  prancing  horse,  the  fox  and  goat, 
The  wild  boar,  with  his  bristled  throat; 
And  others  of  as   strange  a  mien. 
In  oddest  pageantry  is  seen, 
With  wild  confusedness  arrayed 
In  strange  and  beastly  masquerade. 


76  THEREDEAGLE 

To  rattling  drum  and  pealing  horn, 

They  sweep  their  antic  motions  on, 

While  each  with  emulating  throat 

Pours   forth   his   own   discordant   note. 

The  clustered  savages  about 

Gaze  en  the  scene  with  laugh  and  shout: 

And  as  some  lecherous  movement  meets  their  eyes 

Reduplicate  their  wild  unearthly  cries! 

XVI. 

But  now  the  frolic  scene  is  over: 

The  beastly  masquers   disappear, 
And  soon  the  savages  discover 

Their  chiefs  and  prophets  sweeping  near. 
Each  in  his  war-plumes  is  bedecked, 

Stripped  and  girdled  for  the  fight, 

Painted  blue  and  black  and  white. 
And  with  strange  figures  strangely  flecked. 
Rifle  and  club  and  scalping  knife 
Are  placed  in  order  for  the  strife. 
Soon  to  the  music's  quicker  flow 
The  chiefs  in  wild  contortions  go. 
And  onward  press,  with  circles  wide 
Till  'round  one  central  shaft  they  glide, 


THEREDEAGLE  77 

Where,  waving  in  the  midnight  breeze 

That  faintly  ripples   from  the  trees. 

The  blood-stained  locks  and  curls  are  placed, 

That  once  Fort  Mimms's  victims  graced. 

Ah,  manhood,  beauty,  love  and  truth. 

Is  this  the  dreamy  promise  of  thy  youth  I 

XVII. 

As  thus  they  speed  the  frantic  dance, — 
Waving  aloft  the  club  and  lance, — 
And  in  the  moonlight  toss  and  glance, 

Like  demons  at  some  hellish  rite, — 
The  leader  of  the  dusky  throng, — 
Wild  Weatherford, — pours  forth  a  song, 
That  like  a  torrent  sweeps  along 

The  channels  of  the  startled  night, 
And  rings  with  choral  swell  and  bound, 
From  every  lip  throughout  the  Holy  Ground. 

WAR    SONG. 

Muscogee!     Muscogee!  arouse  to  the  fight, 
And  burst  on  the  foe  in  full  fury  and  might! 
His  step  on  the  graves  of  your  fathers  is  seen, 
He   leads    his   fierce   hordes   through    your   orchards   of 
green ; 


78  THEREDEAGLE 

O'er  your  streams   and  your  prairies,  his  dark  shadow 

lies, 

And  the  smoke  of  his  conquest  dims  the  blue  of  your  skies ! 
Then  'rouse  ye  to  battle! — oh,  why  will  ye  sleep! — 
And  burst  on  the  foe  as  the  wolf  on  the  sheep! 
Ho!  Muscogee!     Muscogee! 

Ho!     Ho! 

Muscogee!     Muscogee! — oh,  where  are  the  braves, 
Who    once   hurled    their    wrath   on   the   heads    of   these 

knaves  ? 

Remember  the  blows  our  forefathers  strook! 
Remember  the  scalps  and  the  horses  they  took! 
Oh,  the  flames  of  their  carnage,  like  the  moon,  lit  the 

night, 
And  the  eye  of  the  Great  One,  in  the  redness,  flashed 

bright. 

We  too  are  as  brave, — let  us  rush  on  the  foe, 
And  crush  his  proud  head,  with  one  terrible  blow! 
Ho!  Muscogee!     Muscogee! 

Ho!     Ho! 

Muscogee!  Muscogee! — the   Master  of  Breath 

Will  shield  his  Red  Sons  from  the  arrows  of  death. 

But,  oh,  if  a  brave  in  the  battle  should  fall, 

His  glorious  fate  is  the  noblest  of  all! — 

For  then,  in  the  groves  of  the  sun-goldened  West, 

With  the  chiefs  and  the  hunters,  his  spirit  shall  rest! 


THE        REDE  A  OLE  79 

Then  ye  who  would  live,  or  ye  who  would  die. 
In  honor  and  bliss, — to  the  red  battle  fly  !— 

Ho!  Muscogee!     Muscogee! 

Ho!     Ho! 

Muscogee!     Muscogee! — be  brave  in  the  strife, 
And  wield,  like  the  lightnings,  the  war-club  and  knife. 
Keep  your  eye  to  the  rifle,  your  hand  to  the  axe. 
And  sweep  down  the  foe,  as  the  flame  sweeps  the  flax. 
No  mercy,  no  quarter ! — make  the  rivers  run  red, 
And  fill  up  the  hollows  with  piles  of  the  dead. 
Do  this,  and  your  land  from  the  tyrant  is  free, 
And  your  nation  for  ever  triumphant  shall  be ! 
Ho!  Muscogee!     Muscogee! 

Ho!     Ho! 

XVIII. 

Scarce  had  the  wild  notes  died  away, 

Of  mingled  shout  and  song, — 
The  clash  of  arms  in  mimic  fray, — 

The  murmurs  of  the  motley  throng, — 
When,  at  a  signal  from  the  chief, 
In  tones   significant   as  brief, 
The  preparations  all  were  made, 


80  THEREDEAGLE 

To  meet  the  coming  strife; 
The   bands   are   hastily    arrayed, 

With  rifle,  club  and  knife; 
Some  to  a  distant  point  are  sent, 
Th'  incautious  foe  to  circumvent; 
Some   lurk   along  the   river's   side; 
Those  'mid  the  hills  and  hollows  hide; 
And  these,  a  chosen  force,  remain, 
To  brunt  the  conflict  on  the  plain. 
All,  by  the  Eagle's  words,  are  fired, 
With  rage  and  confidence  inspired, 
And  all  depart  with  courage  high, 
That,  when  the  morning  tints  the  sky, 
Their  gallant  arms  revenge  shall  reap, 
And  from  the  earth,  their  white  foes  sweep. 
High  joy  is  in  their  hearts;  no  bliss 
Their  bosoms  know,  more  dear  than  this — 
The  hope  of  conflict,   rapine,  blood, — 
The  death-shriek  ringing  through  the  wood. 

Poor,  fated  wretches ! — little  deem 
Their  hearts,  how  idle  is  their  dream, — 
That  Death,  the  Reaper,  waiting  stands, 
To  mow,  like  grass,  their  warrior  bands, — 


THE        RED       EAGLE  81 

And  that  the  coming  sun  will  show 

Their  vaunted  strength  all  crushed  and  low, 

And  Alabama's  current  strong 

Breathe  o'er  their  bones  its   funeral  song! — 

And  yet,  with  pulses  throbbing  high, 

The  fire  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 

They  turn  them  to  the  field  of  strife. 

Like  revelers  to  some  scene  of  life! 

But  ere  the  Chieftain  seeks  the  field, 
With  heart  that  will  not  brook  to  yield. 
A  chosen  band  he  sends  to  bear 
The  squaws  and  young  papooses,  where, 
In  safety  they  shall  all  remain. 
Whoe'er  the   bloody   field  may   gain. 
But,  chief  of  all,  he  charges  them, 

His  own  Wild  Flower  to  shield  from  harm, — 
The  bright  Plume  in  his  diadem! — 

His  bosom's  only  light  and  charm! — 
And  then,  with  one  wild  whoop,  departs, 
To  cheer  his  followers'  faithful  hearts. 
And   with   them   wait   the   first  red   ray, 
That  heralds  in  the  dawn  of  Battle's  day! 


82  THEREDEAGLE 

XIX. 

The  morning  came  up  with  its  saffron  and  red, 

And  the  clouds  of  the  east,  like  gay  banners  were  spread, 

And  the  sky,  o'er  the  forest,  was  leaning  like  love, 

And  all  seemed  contentment  and  beauty  above! 

But  the  sounds  of  the  conflict  were  busy  below, — 

The  shot  of  the  White  Man:  the  shout  of  the  foe: 

O'er  hill,  and  down  valley,  by  river  and  creek, 

The  dark  rushing  columns,  the  death  groan  and  shriek, 

The  sharp  ringing  rifle,  the  musket's  dull  sound, 

And  the  boom  of  the  cannon  o'er  the  quivering  ground ! 

Hark !  the  drum  drowns  the  whoop,  and  the  bugle's  fierce 

breath 

Cheers  the  dark  squadrons  on  to  the  banquet  of  death! 
Now,  encountering  closely,  the  war-club  and  knife 
Meet  the  bayonet  and  sword  in  desperate  strife: 
But  soon,  driven  back  in  the  rush  of  the   foe. 
The  Red  Men  retreat  from  his  terrible  blow. 
In  vain  by  the  turn  of  yon  headland  they  rally; 
In  vain  they  bear  up  in  the  gorge  of  that  valley; 
In  vain  on  the  flanks  of  the  columns  they  rush, 
Or  strive  by  dense  numbers  the  vanguard  to  crush: 
In  vain,  gallant  Eagle,  thy  war-scream  is  heard. 
And  thy  pluoie  borne  in  front,  like  the  conqueror-bird; 


THEREDEAGLE  83 

Thy  red  arm,  unbared,  seeks  the  thick  of  the  fight, 
But  thy  braves  are  soon  scattered  in  panic  and  flight; 
The  flames  of  thy  village  flash  red  through  the  trees, — 
The  shouts  of  the  victor  come  down  on  the  breeze, — 
And  the  feet  of  the  White  Dogs  triumphantly  stand, 
Unscathed,  in  the  heart  of  thy  beautiful  land ! 
Ah,  Red  Chief  and  Prophet,  where  now  is  thy  boast? 
Thy  home  and  thy  refuge  and  kingdom  are  lost! 
No  hope  now,  nor  mercy ! — thy  foemen  have  sworn 
Thy  life  for  thy  merciless  deeds  shall  atone. 
Heard'st  not,  through  the  storm  of  the  battle,  their  cry — 
"Revenge  for  Fort  Mimms;  let  the  murderers  die!" 
Then  fly  through  the  forest ! — thy  swift  charger  may 
From  yon  gathering  horsemen,  bear  thee  safely  away ! 

XX. 

Along  the  river's  southern  shore, 

The  Chieftain  spurs  with  desperate  speed; — 
A  hundred  horsemen  'round  him  pour, 

And  press  upon  his  wounded  steed. 
On   either  hand  they  hem  his   path, 

With  shot  and  shout  and  vengeful  cries; 
One  only  refuge  now  he  hath, — 

And  for  the  river's  bank  he  flies. 


84  THE        RED       EAGLE 

Soon.,  soon,,  he  gains  the  wished-for  shore, — 

But,  ah,  what  dreadful  doom  is  this ! — 
The  stream  a  hundred  feet  below, — 

He  on  a  beetling  precipice ! 
The  foemen  shout! — with  fierce  despair, 

He  turns  and  gazes  where  they  come. 
Ah !  yields  the  lion  in  the  snare  ? 

Is  this,  proud  chief,  thy  wretched  doom? 
Ah,  no! — his   snorting  steed  he  reins, 

And  lifts  his  rifle  to  his  eye; 
Death-blood  the   foremost   foeman   stains, 

And  peals  the  warrior's  taunting  cry ! 
He  whirls  the  frantic  steed  around: 

One  moment,  totters  o'er  the  brink, 
And  then,  with  sudden  spur  and  bound, 

Like  lightning,  down  the  void  they  sink! 
Down,  down,  the  steed  and  rider  fly, — 

And  hark!  comes  back  the  steed's  wild  scream! 
Now   lost  they   are  to   ear   and   eye, 

And  sink  beneath  the  plashing  stream! 
Gaze  o'er  the  cliff,  the  baffled  foe, — 

Struck  mute,  they  gaze  with  doubt  and  fear, 
How  still   the  distant  waters   flow ! — 

Nor  steed  nor  rider  re-appear. 


THEREDEAGLE  85 

Ah  yes ! — on  yonder  bank  behold, 
The  Eagle  dashes  from  the  stream, 

And,  ere  he  turns  him  through  the  wold, 
In  pride  hurls  back  his  battle  scream! 


THE     RED     EAGLE 

CANTO  THIRD. 


THE     RED     EAGLE 


CANTO  THIRD. 
I. 

SPRING  on  the  Southern  hills — 

The  music  and  the  light  of  Spring! — 

What  voices  from  a  thousand  rills ! — 

What  bright  birds  on  the  wing ! 

How  like  a  bride,  the  Earth 

Her  roving  lover  smiles  to  meet! 

And,  wreathed  in  flowers,  with  minstrel  mirth, 

Woos  to  her  couch  his  feet! 

Not  in  the  song-loved  East, 
Diviner  spells  were  ever   given,  — 
By  fair  Circassians  flowery  feast, 

Or  Paphia's  sunset  heaven! 


90  THE        RED        EAGLE 

Stand  with  me  on  this  mound, 
And  gaze  with  swimming  eyes  below: 
Greens  not  yon  turf  like  fairy  ground, 

Beneath  some  white  moon's  glow? — 

This  sphered  tomb  we  tread. 
Is  shrine-like,  too,  bedecked  with  green; 
How  sweetly  sleep  the  olden  dead, 

Its  sloping  sides  between! 

Look  down  yon  vine-hung  lane, 
The    fair   magnolia's   fragrant   bowers! — 
Oh,  seem  they  not  some  Emir's  train, 

So  moonlike  in  their  flowers? 

These  tall  old  trees  behold ' 
With  renovated  trunks  they  rise, — 
Their  summits  bathed  in  molten  gold. 
Both  shut  from  us  the  skies. 

Hark!  overhead  the  screams 
Of  green  and  gold-winged  birds  are  loud! — 
Brave  paroquets ! — they've  sought  these  streams, 

A  wheeling,  noisy  crowd! 

And   now   the   mock-bird's   note 
Gomes,  glass-like,  ringing  on  the  breeze! 
How  sweet  its  changing  currents   float 

Through  these  old  silent  trees! 


THEREDEAGLE  91 

Well  might  the  dreamer  think 

Some  Dian's  hand  these  forests  gave, — 

Ah !  see  her  wild-deer  stoop  to  drink 

From  yonder  pebbly  wave! — 

All  o'er  the  sunny  land, 
The  same  wild  beauties  spread. 
From  Fair  Tuscala's  rocky  strand, 

To  Coosa's  green-rimmed  bed! 

And  who  can  view  this  scene, 
So  peaceful,  Eden-like  and  quiet, 
And  think  that  it  has  ever  been 

The  home  of  war  and  riot! 


II 


Yet  war's  wild  banners  late  were  seen, 

Beneath  these  groves  of  peaceful  green. 

And  mingled  smoke  and  dust  arose 

In  clouds  above  contending  foes; 

And  scarce  the  shriek  and  groan  have  ceased, 

That  told  of  Battle's  bloody   feast!— 

Behold  along  yon  river's   side, 

An  army's  tents  are  scattered  wide ! — 

Far  stretch  they  'neath  the  vistaed  oaks. 

While  upward  curl  their  morning  smokes. 


92  THEREDEAGLE 

The  silent  drums,  the  guns  at  rest. 

An  hour  of  peaceful  ease,  attest. 

In  scattered  groups  the  soldiers  meet. 

Their  thrice-told  dangers  to  repeat, 

Or  cheer  some  brooding  heart  with  dreams. 

Of  home  and  its  beloved  themes: — 

Their  sufferings  o'er,  they  soon  shall  turn 

Where  bright  eyes  for  their  welcome  burn! 

Above,  the  star-wreathed  eagle  floats. 
But  hark!  that  bugle's  plaintive  notes! 
How  sweet  it  swells  along  the  grove! 
How  like  the  voice  of  mourning  love! 
Now  sinks  the  strain:  the  muffled  drum 
Booms  where  a  band  of  soldiers  come. 
The  nodding  plumes  evince  their  rank: 
Now  wind  they  slowly  towards  the  bank, 
While  borne  in  front,  is  seen  a  form 
Once  stateliest  in  the  battle  storm, 
But  prostrate  now  in  stillest  rest, 
With  martial  cloak  around  his  breast. 
His  brow  is  fair:  but  oh,  how  pale! 
And  on  that  cheek  is  death's  dark  seal. 
That  lip  so  young — a  sister  kissed! 
A  mother — how  he  will  be  missed! 


THE        RED       EAGLE  93 

Fond  hearts  are  beating  far  for  him ! — 

Bright  eyes — alas !  his  eyes  are  dim ! 

Red  lips  are  whispering  his   name, 

And  prophesying  life  and  fame! 

Alas!  they  little  deem  that  he 

No  more  their  love-lit  smiles  shall  see. 

His  mother,  as  she  knelt  last  night, 

To  pray  for  him,  her  bosom's  light, 

But  little  thought  that  he  was  lying 

A  mangled  corse  among  the  dying! 

But  such  is  War:  those  martial  men 

Bore  forth  the  brave  young  hero  then. 

They  laid  him  in  a  rude  red  grave, 

O'er  which  the  wild-flowers  long  will  wave, 

And  gun  and  drum,  combined  by  them, 

Poured  forth  a  soldier's  requiem ! 

Eyes,  all  unwont  to  weep,  are  dim, — 

They  little  heed,  they  weep  for  him ! — 

For  him.  whose  death  was  glory-bright,  — 

For  him,  who  in  their  last  fierce  fight, 

The  post  of  danger  sought,  and  gave 

His  life,  a  lesson  for  the  brave ! 

Sleep,  brave,  young  warrior,  unforgot! 

A  death  like  thine,  man's  proudest  lot ! 


94  THE       RED       EAGLE 

They  do  not  die,  who  like  thee  die! — 

But  gain  an  immortality ! 

Ah,  yes !  though  death  may  quench  the  flame, 

The  torch  is  lit  again  by  Fame! 

Their  names,  like  stars,  outlive  their  time, 

In  scholar's  scroll  and  minstrel's  rhyme, 

And   ever   shall  remembered   be, 

Like  thine,  brave,  young  MONTGOMERY.  (7) 

III. 

But,  now  the  funeral  rites  are  o'er, 
The  soldiers  seek  their  tents  once  more, 
And,  while  they  weep  their  comrades  slain, 
Brave  hearts  they  ne'er  shall  meet  again, 
Rejoice   to   know   the   strife   is   done 
So  bloodily  and  bravely   won ! 
Yes,  by  their  courage  and  their  strength 
Muscogee's  braves  are  quelled  at  length. 
Six  moons  have  rolled  their  silver  tide, 
And  they  are  blasted  in  their  pride; 
The  Autumn  stars  saw  triumph's  glow, 
The  Spring-time  sun,  the  broken  bow! 
Their  bones  are  white  upon  their  hills, 
Their  blood  has  crimsoned  all  their  rills: 


THEREDEAGLE  95 

From  Estanaula's  tumbling  wave, 

To  where  Escambia's  waters  lave, 

The  fire  and  sword  have  swept  their  land, 

Dealt  with  an  unrelenting  hand. 

At   Tallisee   in  vain  they  stood, 

Or  poured  at  Autosee  their  blood! 

No  skill  or  cunning  could  drive  back. 

The  conqueror  from  his  fiery  track. 

One  final  effort  in  despair, 

As  turns  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

Beside  fair  Tallapoosa's  wave, 

Within  the  "Horse-Shoe  Bend,"  they  made, 
Yet  found  its  refuge  but  a  grave, 

That  scarce  a  warrior  could  evade ! 
Oh,  seldom,  in  the  battle-field, 

Have  fiercer  scenes  or  deadlier  strife, 
Than  this  been  witnessed.     None  would  yield, 

But  in  the  conflict  sold  his  life. 
True,  other  fields  have  more  displayed 

The  pomp  of  war,  the  clashing  din, 
The  gleaming  ranks  in  steel  arrayed, 

The  mortar,   axe   and   culverin: 
But  here  each  warrior  did  his  best; 

Each  grappled  with  his  foeman  grim, 


96  THEREDEAGLE 

Nor  shunned  the  death-bolt  in  his  breast, 

If  he  could  only  die  with  him! 
Brave  men! — your  names  are  all  unknown, 

But  cowards,  when  compared  with  you, 
Have  gained  the  laurels  of  renown, 

And  live  among  earth's  treasured  few. 
But  he,  your  Conqueror,  well  deserves 

The  honors  of  unfading  fame; 
His   is   a  soul  that  never  swerves 

From  duty's  high  and  holy  claim. 
In  boyhood's  morning  time,  he  braved 

A  tyrant's  minions  in  their  wrath, 
And  proved  our  Land,  though  then  enslaved, 

Should  tread  in  freedom's  starry  path. 
And  when  the  wail  of  woe  was  heard 

Along  the  borders  of  the  West, 
He  grasped  his  country's  rusted  sword, 

And   stood   a  shield  before  her  breast. 
Through  all  these  scenes  of  strife  and  blood, 

His  arm  has  borne  our  banner  on; 
Though  weak  and  wounded,  he  has  stood 

Aye,  foremost  till  the  field  was  won. 
High   is   his    fame:   but   greener  leaves 

Shall  yet  adorn  his  warrior  brow; 


THE       REDE  A  OLE  97 

For  in  the  future  he  achieves 

A  prouder  fame  than  decks  him  now. 
The  veil  of  time  lifts  from  my  sight ! 

And  with  a  prophet's  eye  I  see, 
Shed  ever  on  his  brow,  its  light, 

The  golden  star  of  Victory! 
I  see  him,  on  the  embattled  field, 

Beat  back  our  ancient  Foes,  once  more; 
The  Thunder  bolts,  I  see  him  wield, 

And  hurl  the  Titans  from  the  shore! 
His  country  owns  his  high  deserts, 

And  shout  with  joy  his   victor  name, 
Above  all  foes  his  Right  asserts — 

The  loved  inheritor  of  Fame! 
The  stars  are  'round  him ! — I  behold, 

Through   crowding  years,   his   fame   go   down, 
And  when  his  locks  are  white  and  old, 

Upon  his  brow  the  Mural  Crown! 
He  wears  it  nobly:  still,  as  aye, 

To  freedom's  faith,  he  proves  him  true ; 
His  country's  Shield  and  Sword  alway, — 

Her  honor   ever  in  his  view ! 
Oh,  Chief  and  Statesman,  may  the  years 

Of  traveling  time  ne'er  dim  thy  fame, 


98  THEREDEAGLE 

But  leave  us,   as   it  now   appears, 

In  star-famed  letters,  JACKSON'S  name! 


IV. 


The  strife  is  over, — misery  fraught! 
The  Retribution  has  been  wrought ! 
And  now  the  Conqueror  but  delays 
Beside  his  recent  battle-place, 
To  meet  the  tribes  who  sue  for  peace, 
And  beg  their  bloody  doom  may  cease- 
Sullen  and  sad  the  vanquished  come, — 
Their  bronzed  brows  all  dark  with  gloom. 
The  fire,  that  filled  their  eagle  eyes, 
Now  quenched  in  tearless  sorrow,  dies. 
Old  warriors,  grim,  and  tall,  and  gray, 
With  broken  limbs,  a  sad  array ! — 
Young  braves,  with  wounds  all  bleeding  yet, 
Gashed  by  the  sword  and  bayonet: 
And  women,  too, — a  sadder  sight! — 
Scarred  with  the  tokens  of  the  fight! 
All  come — in  deep  despondence  dumb, — 
Before  the  Mighty  Captain  come! 
They  lay  their  feeble  weapons  down, 
Beneath  his  stern,  unpitying  frown, 


THE        RED       EAGLE  99 

And  yield  their  hostages  that  they 
No  more  his  word  will  disobey. 
The  only  terms  he  sternly  grants, 

By  which  their  homes  and  lives  to  shield, 
Are  that  they  seek  their  hidden  haunts, 

And  force  their  hostile  chiefs  to  yield. 
"To  each  and  all  shall  mercy  be, 
Who   yield  at   once   implicitly! — 
To  each  and  all, — save  only  one — 
Whose  deeds  a  fiercer  doom  have  won, — 
The   Eagle   Chief— proud  Weatherford— 
Whose  name  has  been  your  rallying  word; — 
Whose  cry  has  filled  each  battle-field; — 
Whose  life  some  demon  seems  to  shield; — 
Whose   rifle,  at  the   Horse-Shoe   Bend, 
Struck  down  my  bosom's  dearest  friend, 
The  brave  Montgomery; — whose  hand 
Brought  all  this  ruin  on  your  land; 
For  whom  a  thousand  victims  cry, — 
The  Murderer  of  Fort  Minims  shall  die!" 


V. 


Beside  the   Mighty  Captain,  stands 
An  old  man,  grasping  in  his  hands 


100  THE       RED       EAGLE 

His  heavy  rifle,  down  his  cheek 

War-worn   and   wrinkled, — tear-drops   break, 

And  through  the  crowd,  his  red  eyes  range, 

Filled   with  the   lightnings   of  revenge. 

"Yes  !  yes  !" — he  mutters,  "oft  and  long 

I've  sought  him  in  the  battle  throng: 

His  red  plume,  bathed  in  Lilla's  gore, 

Has  ever  waved  mine  eyes  before, — 

The  torch  of  vengeance ! — but  the  fiends 

Have  saved  him  by  their  hellish  means; 

Yet    now    the    snares    are    'round   him:    soon 

His  corse  shall  rot  beneath  the  moon! — 

Ha!  ha!  I  see  him  in  the  darkness  swing, — 

Fat  feeding  for  the   famished  vulture's  wing!" 


VI. 


Far  from  these  scenes  where  dogwood  trees 
Waste  their  wild  blossoms  on  the  breeze, 
Beside  a  spring  that  prattling  pours 
Its  pebbly  tide  down  verdant  shores, 
A  warrior,  with  a  maid,  is  seen. 
Half-hidden  through  the  leafy  green. 
She  leans  upon  his  manly  breast; 
His  arm  is  'round  her  gently  pressed. 


THE        RED        EAGLE  101 

How  starry  beam  those  upward  eyes! 
That  brow — the  white  moon  of  the  skies ! 
The  small  foot,  'mid  those  violets  prest, 
In  strange  and  beaded  beauty  drest ! 
Her  eyes,  like  flowers,  are  filled  with  dew, 
But  sunbeam  smiles  are  glimmering  through. 
She  speaks,  "Oh,  yes !  my  father  lives, 
His   daughter  every   grief   forgives; 
Oh,  yes  !  I  heard  his  voice  last  night 
Ring  down  the  glen,  above  the  fight, — 
I  saw  his  form,  his  well-known  dress, 

His  waving  locks,  so  old  and  gray, 
And  would  have  rushed  to  his  embrace, 

But  in  the  darkness  swooned  away!" 

Silent  the  chief  meets  her  caress ; 

A  melancholy  tenderness 

About  his  eyes  and  mouth,  the  while, 

Sheds  sadness  o'er  his  very  smile; 

His  thoughts  seem  wandering  in  a  dream — 

A  night  of  storm — one  starry  beam ! 

The  maiden  starts:     "My  heart  is  full 

Of  bubbling  joy,  but  oh,  I  fear 
A  doom  than  all  more  terrible, 

Is  gathering  'round  thy  footsteps  here. 


102  THE        RED        EAGLE 

The  warriors  all  have  left  thy  path; 
The  White  Man's  devastating  wrath 
Pursues    thee    still;    no    mercy,    no! 
Will  he  the  hunted  Chieftain  show. 
Around  us  death,  and  Death!  his  cry: 
Oh,  Weatherford,  where  shall  we  fly? 
But,  come  what  may,  the  Eagle's  mate 
Will  proudly  share  his  fallen  fate! 
When  clouds  beset  the  sinking  sun, 
Still  o'er  him  hangs  his  crescent  one; 
And  I,  though  death  should  fall  on  thee, 
Will,  warrior,  with  thee,  ever  be!" 

"Lilla,"  the  Chieftain  rising,  said, 

"The  storm  is  'round  me;  o'er  my  head 

The  bolt  impends;  but  I  will  fling 

The  clouds  below  me,  with  my  wing; 

The  hawk  might  seek  the  blast  to  shun, — 

The  Eagle  soars  to  meet  the  sun! 

Linger  thou  here:  the  night's  first  breeze 

Shall  whisper  'Safety !'  through  the  trees !" 

One  kiss  ! — the  pressure  of  two  throbbing  hearts ,- 

A   sinking   form! — how   wavelike! — he   departs. 


THE        RED        EAGLE  103 

VII. 

High  noon  within  the  bannered  tent ! 
The  Conqueror's  spirit  still  is  bent 
Upon  his  purpose.      'Round  him  press 
His  chosen  councillors.     Each  dress 
A  chieftain  shows,  whose  deeds  of  fame 
Have  shed  a  beauty  'round  his  name — 
A  light  that,  like  a  star,  will  beam. 

Lustrous,  and  large. — a   golden   glory — 
Adown  the  future's  gliding  stream, 

And  gild  our  country's  morning  story ! 
There   COFFEE   stands,   whose   stalwart   form 
Has  nobly  borne  the  battle-storm; 
Whose  plume  has  shone  through  every  fight. 
A  guiding  and   a  cheering  light ! — 
And  CARROLL  there,  around  whose  brow. 
The  scars  are  seamed  like  laurels  now. — 

And  at  whose  name,  the  Indian  quails 
By  all  his  smoking  hills  and  vales ! — 
And  ARMSTRONG  here,  whose  younger   face 
Still  beams  with  glory's  martial  grace, — 
Whose  words  of  cheer  the  battle  won  — 
"I  fall,  my  men,  but  save  the  gun!" 


104  THE       RED       EAGLE 

These  'round  their  valiant  leader  stand, 

And  share  his  councils.     All  regret 
That,  though  their  arms  have  swept  the  land, 

Its  bloody  Chief  escapes  them  yet! 
"By  heavens !  he  wears  a  charmed  life ! 

Go,  bid  the  spies,  that,  far  and  near, 
They  cease  not  from  the  baffled  strife, 

Till,  dead,  or  captive,  he  is  here!" 

Scarce,  from  those  lips  of  fiery  scorn, 
The  fierce  decree  had  sternly  gone, 
When  suddenly,  within  the  tent, 

A  warrior  form,  unarmed  and  tall, 
With  bright  plumes  o'er  his  forehead  bent, 
And  rich  scarfs  with  gay  wampum  blent, 

Around  his  limbs   symmetrical, 
Before  the  startled  conquerors,  stands, 
Holding  a  broken  bow  within  his  hands. 

A  kingly  figure, — high  and  proud, 
With  nature's  faultless  grace  endowed! 
Fearless  in  port,  as  if  he  trod,  v 

Like  Rob  Roy,  on  his  Highland  sod! 
His  face  is  calm;  no  lines  of  fear 
On  brow,  or  lip,  or  cheek,  appear; 


THE       RED       EAGLE  105 

And  in  his  eye,  so   falcon-framed, 

The  native  fire  is  all  untamed! 

But  still  a   calmness   marks  his  mien, — 

A   sadness   in  that   eye   is   seen, — 

As  in  some  fountain's  limpid  breast 

You  see  the  mirrored  clouds  at  rest ! 

Those  lips,  so  proud,  show,  by  their  press, 

The  seal  of  inward  wretchedness; 

And,  through  that  heaving  breast,  is  viewed 

A  spirit  crushed,  but  not  subdued: 

Yet  ne'er  did  nobler  brow  or  form 

Stern  manhood  awe,  or  timorous  beauty  charm ! 

The  startled  group,  in  silent  wonder  gaze 
One  moment,  on  the  intruder's  manly  face, 
And  then  his  name  and  purpose,  bid  him  speak. 
He   answers : 

"I  am  Weather  ford.    (8)      I  come  to  seek 
Peace  for  myself  and  people." 

At   the   word, 

What  passions  in  the  Victor's  breast  are  stirred! 
"Hah!     Is  it  so?     Art  thou  the  bloody  Chief? 
And  does  Fort  Mimms's  murderer  ask  relief? 
I  like  not  this !     I  bade  them  bring  thee,  bound 
To  expiate  by  death,  thy  crimes  renowned ! 


106  THE        RED        EAGLE 

If  so  thou  hadst  appeared,  I  could  decide 
Full  soon  thy  fitting  fate, — thou  shouldst  have  died. 
But  thus  to  come !  'tis  strange !  and  claiming  peace !" 
"I'm  in  your  power:  do  with  me  as  you  please/' 
The  Chief  replies:     "A  soldier, — I  have  fought 
Your  people  long  and  bravely,  as   I  ought; 
They  were  my  foes, — and  all  the  harm  I  could 
I  did  them.     With  an  army  still,  I  would 
Fight  to  the  last.     But  all  my  braves  are  gone, 
And  I  am  left  my  nation's  woes  to  mourn. 
Once  to  the  fight  my  warriors  I  could  cheer. 
But  now,  all  dead,  my  voice  they  cannot  hear. 
Their    bones    are   white   upon    To-hope-ka's   hill. 
By   Talladega   and   Emucfau's   rill, 
At  fatal  Tallisee,  and  Coosa's  shore. 
Thy  arms  have  crushed  them :  even  hope  is  o'er  1 
Long  as  a  chance  remained,  I  kept  the  field, 
Nor  now,  could  I  revive  the  dead,  would  yield. 
Our  Georgia  foes  we  could  have  laughed  to  scorn. 
But  you  have  triumphed,  and  my  people  mourn . 
Our  fields  are  wasted,  and  our  cattle  dead, 
Our  women  weep,  our  children  cry  for  bread! 
I  mourn  the  sufferings  of  my  native  land, 
And,  for  myself  and  people,  peace  demand. 


THE       RED       EAGLE  107 

A  brave  man  knows  a  brave  man's  heart ! — and   I 
Upon  your  generosity  rely!" 

As  thus  the  Chieftain  spake  in  tones 

The  generous  boson?  ever  owns, 

And  feels,  before  their  simple  sense. 

The    power    of    heart-born    eloquence, — - 

The  Victor's  iron  soul  was   stirred, 

And  melted  by  each  glowing  word. 

In  vain  the  abject  voice  of  fear. 

Trembling  and  faint,  had  pleaded  there; 

In   vain   the   children  of  the   wood 

Had,   for  their  Chieftain,  kneeling  sued; 

Nor  woman's  voice,  nor  infant  cry 

Had  changed  that  stern  decree — to  die! 

But  here  a  hero  proudly  stands, 

And   from  his  conqueror  life  demands, — 

Though  vanquished,  proud,  though  helpless,  brave. 

A   soul   misfortune   could   not   slave ! 

Vile  Tamerlane,  with  beastly  threat. 

Might  gloat  o'er  conquered  Bajazet, — 

Or  Edward  doom  a  kneeling  town 

To  perish  in  his  fiery  frown. — 

But  here  a  spirit,  else  all  steel, 

Could  own  a  kindred  spirit's  high  appeal! 


108  THE        RED       EAGLE 

"By  Heavens!"  he  cries,  "it  shall  be  so! 

Although  I've  often  sworn  in  wrath, 
To  hurl  on  thee  our  heaviest  blow. 

And  doomed  thee  to  a  felon's  death: 
Yet  souls  like  thine,  we  may  forgive, — • 
Go  safely,  Chieftain,  thou  shalt  live!" 
The  Chieftain  turns, — but  hark,  a  cry! 

An  angry  form  bursts  in  the  tent, 
"No!  by  my  soul! — the  dog  shall  die, 

And  go  the  way  his  victims  went! 
My  Lilla's  blood  cries  from  the  ground! 
For  vengeance  on  the  accursed  hound! 
Hold  not  my  gun ! — my  General ! — no ! 
My  ball  shall  lay  the  murderer  low!" 

"White  Wolf,"— the  Chieftain  calmly  said, 

Beazely,  thy  daughter  is  not  dead!" 

And  scarce  the  words  the  Chief  had  spoke, 

To  check  the  old  man's  maniac  wrath, 
When,  through  the  tent,  a  light  form  broke, — 

The  White  Dove  on  the  Eagle's  path ! — 
With  cry  of  joy,  all  unreprest, 
And  fainting,  fell  upon  her  father's  breast!   (9) 


NOTES 


NOTES 


1.     "Few  weeks  agone,  vile  murder  gave 

Our    nobtest   youths    to    Burnt    Corn's    wave." 

The  battle  of  Burnt  Corn  was  the  first  open  conflict  in 
this  war,  though  preceded  by  many  border  massacres.  It  oc 
curred  in  July,  1813,  in  what  is  now  Conecuh  County,  Ala 
bama,  "where  the  old  road  to  Pensacola  crossed  Burnt  Corn 
Creek."  A  party  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  hostile  Indians, 
headed  by  Peter  McQueen,  a  wealthy  half-breed,  had  received 
a  large  supply  of  ammunition  and  merchandise  from  the 
Spaniards,  and,  on  their  return  home,  were  attacked  by  a 
hastily  collected  force  of  three  hundred  men  from  the  Tensaw 
and  Tombecbee  settlements,  under  Col.  James  Callier.  A 
running  fight  of  three  hours  ensued,  in  which  the  whites  were 
defeated  and  dispersed,  with  great  loss  upon  both  sides.  The 
Indians  always  assigned  this  "unprovoked  attack"  as  the 
cause  of  the  massacre  at  Fort  Mimms,  and  of  the  subsequent 


2.     "No  manlier  one  than   Weatherford." 

The  Hon.  N.  H.  Claiborne,  in  his  Notes  on  the  War  in 
the  South,  written  while  feelings  of  animosity  were  still  fresh 
against  our  hero,  gives  the  following  glowing,  though  by  no 
means  partial  sketch  of  his  character:  "Fortune  bestowed  on 
Weatherford,  genius,  eloquence,  and  courage.  The  first  of 
these  qualities  enabled  him  to  conceive  great  designs;  the 
last  to  execute  them;  while  eloquence,  bold,  impressive,  and  fig 
urative,  furnished  him  with  a  passport  to  the  favor  of  his 


THE       RED       EAGLE 


countrymen  and  followers.  Silent  and  reserved,  unless  when 
excited  by  some  great  occasion,  and  superior  to  the  weak 
ness  of  rendering  himself  cheap  by  the  frequency  of  his  ad 
dresses,  he  delivered  his  opinions  but  seldom  in  council;  but 
when  he  did  so,  he  was  listened  to  with  delight  and  appro 
bation.  His  judgment  and  eloquence  had  secured  the  respect 
of  the  old;  his  vices  made  him  the  idol  of  the  young  and  un 
principled.  With  avarice,  treachery,  and  a  thirst  for  blood, 
he  combines  lust,  gluttony,  and  a  devotion  to  every  species 
of  criminal  carousal.  ...  In  his  person,  he  is  tall,  straight 
and  well-proportioned;  his  eye  black,  lively,  penetrating,  and 
indicative  of  courage  and  enterprise;  his  nose  prominent, 
thin  and  elegant  in  its  formation;  while  all  the  features  of 
his  face,  harmoniously  arranged,  speak  an  active  and  discip 
lined  mind.  .  .  .  Such  were  the  opposite  and  sometimes  dis 
gusting  traits  of  character  of  the  celebrated  Weatherford, 
the  key  and  corner-stone  of  the  Creek  Confederacy." 

It  may  here  be  stated  that  our  hero  was  a  son  of  Charles 
Weatherford,  a  Scotch  peddler  among  the  Indians,  and  of  a 
half-sister  of  the  celebrated  founder  of  the  Creek  Confeder 
acy,  General  Alexander  McGillivray.  He  was  consequently  a 
half-breed. 

3.  "The   hardy  pioneers   to   guard 

Who   from   the   neighboring   settlements." 

The  settlers  upon  the  Tombecbee  and  Tensaw,  at  this 
early  period,  were  principally  emigrants,  who  had  left  Georgia 
and  South  Carolina,  at  the  close  of  the  Revolution.  The 
"savage  wilderness,"  to  the  east  of  them,  extended  to  the 
Oconee,  and  westward,  nearly  to  Natchez  on  the  Mississippi; 
while  their  only  civilized  communication  was  with  the  Span 
iards  at  Mobile,  who  looked  upon  them  as  filibusteros  and  in 
truders.  At  the  first  outbreak  of  hostilities,  they  took  refuge 
in  Fort  Stoddart,  and  other  temporary  fortifications,  besides 
Fort  Mimms.  This  latter  fort  was  the  only  one  that  fell  a 
victim  to  the  assaults  of  the  savages. 

4.  "Mine  eyes  this  night  have  seen  his  mighty  face:' 

This  is  a  literal  version  of  one  of  these  hag-prophecies, 
preserved  by  Col.  Hawkins,  the  Indian  Agent,  and  may  be 
found  in  the  American  State  Papers. 


THE       RED       EAGLE  113 


5.  "Hear  the  story  of  three,  whose  memories  long 
Should  live  in  the  flower-crourned  annals  of  song." 

"The  Canoe  Fight,"  here  commemorated,  took  place  in 
October,  1813,  on  the  Alabama  River,  a  short  distance  below 
the  present  town  of  Claiborne.  .It  was  fought,  as  narrated, 
between  nine  Creek  warriors  in  one  canoe,  and  Samuel  Dale, 
Jeremiah  Austill,  and  James  Smith,  three  members  of  a 
scouting  company,  which  had  just  crossed  the  river,  but  could 
render  no  assistance  for  want  of  a  boat,  to  their  companions, 
who  had  been  left,  with  a  few  others,  as  the  rear-guard.  The 
desperate  contest  was  witnessed  from  both  banks.  Its  result 
was  mainly  due  to  the  Herculean  powers  of  Dale,  who  was 
known  to  the  Indians,  and  dreaded,  as  Sam  Thlucco,  or  Big 
Sam,  they  having  frequently  felt  his  prowess.  He  survived 
the  war,  as  one  of  its  most  distinguished  heroes;  was  fre 
quently  a  member  of  the  Alabama  Legislature,  and  gave 
name  to  Dale  County,  in  that  State.  He  died  a  few  years 
since,  in  Mississippi,  as  did  James  Smith,  one  of  his  compan 
ions.  The  gallant  Austill  still  survives,  a  most  respected  cit 
izen  of  Mobile. 

6.  "Echanachaca! — ne'er    to    raptured   sight." 

The  Holy  Ground,  here  truthfully  described  in  its  pris 
tine  beauty,  was  located  in  what  is  now  Lowndes  County,  on 
the  Alabama  River,  between  Big  Swamp  and  Pintlala  Creeks. 
The  great  battle  was  fought  here  with  Weatherford,  on  the 
23rd  of  January,  1814,  by  the  Mississippi  troops  and  some 
volunteers  from  the  Tombecbee  and  Tensaw  settlements,  and 
a  body  of  Choctaw  warriors,  led  by  Pushmataha — all  under 
command  of  General  Claiborne.  The  account  of  the  escape 
of  Weatherford,  by  leaping  his  horse  from  a  bluff  into  the 
river,  is  strictly  true.  The  bluff  in  question  is  situated  a  few 
miles  above  the  village  of  Benton. 

7.  "And  ever  shall   remembered   be, 

Like   thine   brave,  young  Montgomery." 

Major  Lemuel  P.  Montgomery,  the  bosom  friend  of  Gen 
eral  Jackson,  a  lawyer  of  high  promise,  and  a  gallant  volun 
teer  officer,  fell  leading  the  attacking  column,  on  the  breast 
work,  at  the  battle  of  the  Horse  Shoe.  His  name  is  proudly 
commemorated  in  the  present  seat  of  government  of  Ala 
bama. 


114  THE       RED       EAGLE 


8.  "He  answers,  'I  am  Weather  ford  I'" 

The  most  reliable  report  of  this  speech  is  given  in  Eaton's 
Life  of  Jackson.  It  was  taken  down  by  an  officer  at  the 
time.  It  is,  in  my  estimate,  altogether  the  finest  specimen  of 
Indian  eloquence. 

9.  "And  fainting,  fell  upon  her  father's  breast." 

The  public  life  of  Weatherford  terminated  with  the  war. 
He  retired  to  a  reservation  made  him,  upon  Little  River,  the 
boundary  of  Monroe  and  Baldwin  counties,  not  far  from  the 
site  of  Fort  Mimms.  Here,  though  surrounded  by  the  whites, 
he  was  never  interrupted,  but  carried  on  a  large  plantation, 
and  raised  many  children,  sonic  of  whom,  with  their  descend 
ants,  still  reside  in  those  counties.  Weatherford  died  in 
1824,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  following  notice,  in  a  Mobile 
paper  for  that  year:  "William  Weatherford,  the  celebrated 
warrior,  is  at  length  vanquished — the  destroyer  is  conquered 
— the  hand  which  so  profusely  dealt  death  and  desolation 
among  the  whites,  is  now  paralyzed — it  is  motionless.  He 
died  at  his  late  residence,  near  Montpelier,  in  this  State,  on 
the  9th  of  March,  inst.  His  deeds  of  war  are  well  known  to 
the  early  settlers  in  South  Alabama,  and  will  be  remembered 
by  them  while  they  live,  and  be  talked  of  with  horror  by  gen 
erations  yet  unborn.  But  his  dauntless  spirit  has  taken  its 
flight;  he  is  gone  to  the  land  of  his  fathers." 

THE  END. 


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